Just Saying
by J. R. Castle
Summary: A college grad finds himself reborn in a world he read about when he was a kid. Really, I think J. K. Rowling did a fine job, but some of these things just make no sense when you really think about them. Self-insert, at times essayistic, excessively meta.
1. Fiction and Reality

**Just Saying,**

 ** _Or_**

 **A deconstructive analysis of the _Harry Potter_ franchise ****by someone who actually lived in it**

* * *

 **1\. Fiction and Reality**

* * *

He was given the name "Joseph Claymont." It took some time to familiarize himself with it, a hesitation in responding to his own name which Mother Clarion fortunately attributed to his young age. After a while, "Jo" stuck in his mind as the one word he automatically responded to, one he treated as he would any nickname that had been given to him over the now apparently brief couple of decades he thought of as his "previous life."

The first few years were ones lived in deep introspection. He had enough time for this, being given no true responsibility aside from food and play. Though he understood the value in this, having long ago begun to feel nostalgic for the ease and carelessness of childhood, he was nevertheless incapable of enjoying it because of the simple fact that, rationally, he should be a child no longer.

Reincarnation. The word sprung to mind the moment he first opened his eyes to Mother Clarion's cooing face, wrapped up in cushy blankets and having lost all control of his bodily functions. As he regained his motor skills, doing so with a speed unparalleled by any of the other orphaned children, he spent much time thinking on the implications of his newfound existence. Religious ideas tangled in his mind, and though he thought they came the closest to explaining something so impossible, he was forced to abandon them after hitting the same conceptual wall he'd hit every time he'd ever considered the possibility of an afterlife. Though he had a fairly useful schema for acting in the world, he didn't have the most basic sketch for what to do outside of it. Having a new body and life made for one new bullet point in his otherwise empty outline of non-existence.

So Jo busied himself with other things. He found that the people around him spoke English, and so re-learning the language took no time at all. Reading came even easier, as the only part of him that needed any adjustment were his new eyes, which struggled to dart from one end of the page to the other with the same speed as his old ones. He discovered that the year was 1982, making his birthday 1980, and as he grew older, he was both glad and puzzled to realize that the date was the only thing which differentiated this world from the one he'd come from. He also discovered that he now lived in London of all places, though the accent which everyone seemed to posses (including him, as time went on), had more or less given that away.

The people were the same. When he found a map, he saw that the general layout of nations was much the same as well, save for all the new ones that would be instituted in later years. He briefly considered treating his rebirth as a sort of time-travel adventure, wherein he might change things for the better, stopping any coming catastrophes and speeding along any coming social gains, but he abandoned that idea soon enough. Time paradoxes aside, he knew very well that geopolitical intricacies were beyond him. There was just too much he didn't know or understand for him to attempt any massive divergences from the history he only vaguely recalled.

Instead, Jo decided to enjoy his childhood. Getting to experience it a second time was lucky enough. He played with the other orphaned children, and he helped Mother Clarion around the home when she needed it. The poor woman was all by herself with twenty kids, after all. He went to church once, to see if the pastor was any good. He wasn't, and so Jo never went again. He read a lot. He ate all his vegetables, hopeful to grow taller than the 176 centimeters which a decade and-a-half of junk food and candy had given him in his old life. He started going to school, and as he didn't like lying, he decided to not bother with hiding the wealth of his knowledge. He skipped three grades after the first day. On the second day, he skipped another two. Jo thought that the only reason he wasn't allowed to skip more was because the adults in charge didn't want him to move on to college before he was even six.

They tested him, of course, just to see. He aced most of the exams they presented him with, all except for maths, as he'd lost all interest in the subject after advanced algebra and had therefore put no more time in it than necessary. His IQ, to their surprise, wasn't the world-shattering number they'd thought it would be. It was above average, but that was all it was. No one asked for Jo's opinion, and so he didn't offer it, more than satisfied with having those around him make their own conclusions.

And then, one day, he sneezed himself blue. One of the other kids had blown a daffodil at him, and when he sneezed, his skin suddenly took on a sickly, purplish blue color. It happened in the orphanage, right as Mother Clarion was rounding everyone up from backyard play. They all stopped and stared, speechless. Jo, for the first time in matters related to his strangeness, joined them in their utter bafflement.

Mother Clarion got everyone inside and took him to her office, where she sat him down while she called the hospital. As he sat, Jo stared at the blue hands on his lap, and an impossible thing occurred to him. Something, he thought, just as impossible as being born again into a new life.

His theory was confirmed to him the moment that two men walked through the door, each holding out a thin stick. Mother Clarion bolted to her feet, fear-struck, walking around her desk.

"Who are you men barging into—"

" _Stupefy."_

A blue stream of air shot out from the lead man's wand, washing over Mother Clarion's face like a splash of water. She dropped right to the floor, unconscious. The other man had his own wand pointed at Jo, but he hesitated when he saw that the boy didn't so much as twitch out of his seat. Instead, Jo simply looked down at Mother Clarion on the floor, then at the two men, and then faced forward at nothing. He smiled, and his voice sounded bemused, like he'd only just stopped laughing at a good joke and was still struck by its brilliance.

"Let me guess," Jo said. "I'm a wizard, right?"

The two men looked at him in silence. Jo didn't turn to look at them, still smiling to himself, and they both got the impression that he wasn't waiting for an answer at all. The question had been asked with all the surety of one who was only looking for confirmation.

"How did you know?" the lead man asked.

Jo stood up and stretched, hands over his head, yawn deep. "Let's just say I like to read."

* * *

He was in a _Harry Potter_ fan-fiction.

Though Jo couldn't prove this, the thought was as amusing as it was horrifying. Even as he waited with the wizards in Mother Clarion's office—two blokes called Jim and Tim, Ministry Oblivators—Jo couldn't help feeling as if his every thought and action were being written right then by some practically omnipotent creator, one very likely sitting cozily at home, possibly with a mug of coffee at his side.

Really, it was the only scenario in which anything that was happening to him made any sense. His current circumstances weren't only ridiculous, but highly specific, and if he looked at it through a certain lens, even purposeful. These kinds of stories were common. A man or woman from "real life" gets sucked into any given fantasy setting, the knowledge of which rests safely inside his or her head, and becomes a part of the otherwise canonical story, involving him or herself with that setting's characters and conflicts, using his or her metatextual knowledge to survive and, in most instances, thrive in his or her newfound reality. It made a rather absurd amount of sense, as nonsensical as the situation otherwise was.

Well, why not? Who's to say that the life Jo knew before—his previous life in the "real world," one which felt exactly as tactile and actual as the one he lived now—wasn't itself written by some author? Are novels not mere representations of possibility, taking an imagined reality and manifesting it in words which, when interpreted by the reader, become themselves a sort of world weaved in fantasy? And what of books inside of books? Are the novels written by Gilderoy Lockhart—books within the world of the _Harry Potter_ books—farther removed from reality because of their existence as fiction within fiction? Layers of reality, each one more artificial than the other, infinitely escaping from truth?

Jo thought not.

 _Maybe,_ he thought, _there is no such thing as "truth" at all. Maybe the "actual" is only an illusion after all, one not interpreted through diluted lenses, but created through the act of interpretation itself. In which case, I suppose it doesn't really matter whether this is all a story being written by someone or not, because fiction is all there truly is._

It seemed to him then that whatever difference there might've been between the reality experienced firsthand through the senses and the reality experienced secondhand through catharsis in fiction was as arbitrary as it felt actual. This was a well-trod theory, as Jo well knew, but having studied it was somewhat different from becoming involved in it so directly.

Jo only hoped that, if he were a character created by an author, this author was bad at it. In his experience, bad authors had a higher chance of giving their stories a happy ending, one granted to their characters without much in the way of conflict.

I will now step in and promise you, the reader, that although I wouldn't go as far as to say that I'm a particularly _good_ author, I'm certainly not a horrible one. Jo is right that conflict is necessary for any well-told story, but this doesn't mean that extraneous conflict for its own sake benefits that story any more than its total absence. Conflict and its resolution must, as in any good story, arise from the character's own prerogative, and in doing so that dramatic arc becomes meaningful rather than superfluous. So, while there are exceptions, the general rule is that a story is good when its protagonist is active as opposed to passive, seeking something, desiring something, driven to change. Since I'm taking the time to address you directly, I will simply state that, despite how he may seem, Jo is actually a very passive person, and so making this story any good is really all up to him.

* * *

The door opened, and in walked two more people. One, a middle-aged man, was dressed in a simple business suit, hair slicked back, grey beard trimmed short. Jo immediately recognized the other as Minerva McGonagall, since she looked exactly like Maggie Smith, the actress who portrayed her in the movies. The most shocking thing was that she wore no witch's robe, instead sporting a simple outing dress, so that she really didn't look like the character Jo was so familiar with at all.

Jim and Tim stood at attention, arms rigid on either side. "Sir," they both said.

"At ease, gentlemen," the man said, and Jo could see the two oblivators slouch minutely. The man looked from his subordinates to him, and Jo found that he had a kind face, one quite used to the serene smile he held even then. "First thing's first. Has the place been secured?"

"All muggles have been safely oblivated, sir," Jim said. "Wasn't too hard a job, just a case of blue hyperpigmentation on the kid here."

"And the surrounding area?"

"Checked and deemed unaware," Tim said. "We were lucky this happened on private property. I can't imagine what a headache it would've been if he'd turned blue out on the street."

The man chuckled. "We've dealt with much worse, unfortunately. Well, good work, in any case. You're both dismissed. Now could you please allow Ms. McGonagall and I a moment alone with Mr… Claymont, was it?"

Jo, still sitting, gave the man a smile and a nod. He saw the two oblivators make their way out, both addressing McGonagall personally as they did, making him assume that they'd been students of hers at one point or another. They closed the door behind them, and the room was soon filled with silence.

The man walked towards Mother Clarion's desk and sat behind it with the ease of someone well-versed in command. McGonagall followed him, choosing to stand at his side. They both looked at Jo, examining him, and he did much the same, more than willing to let them take the lead.

Finally, the man leaned forward, hands clasped. "Now, Mr. Claymont—or Joseph, if that suits you better?"

"Jo is fine."

"Jo then. My name is Gerald Lane, Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. This woman with me is Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Nice to meet you."

"Of course, you as well. I don't suppose you know why we're here today?"

Jo decided at that moment to speed things along. Slow conversations were rather boring to sit through, even if they involved him directly. "You all freaked out because I knew you were wizards."

If Jo expected to see any shock, he was disappointed. Gerald Lane's serene smile stayed plastered on his face, and McGonagall looked at him as sternly as she had upon first walking into the room. What he didn't know is that the two were in fact quite shocked with his frankness, and only avoided showing their surprise by virtue of their extreme level of self control.

"That's right, Jo," Lane said. "We did 'freak out,' as you put it. Now, that doesn't mean that you're in any trouble. It's just that, well, we wizards take our secrecy very seriously. Minerva and I would just like to know how exactly you knew about us. The way Jim put it, you didn't look very surprised at all when he and Tim started waving their wands."

Jo didn't think that saying he was from another reality would do him any favors. Not because the two wizards wouldn't believe him—though it would probably be a hard sell—but because it would take too much effort. That and he'd likely gain an inordinate amount of attention from the Ministry, even more than he'd managed to acquire now. He didn't know whether or not it would make him some sort of study subject for the Department of Mysteries, but even if it didn't, Jo couldn't imagine that they would leave him alone. It all just sounded like a giant pain, really.

But he also didn't want to lie, because again, Jo didn't like lying. So he did what he always did whenever his strangeness was questioned: allow the questioner to make his own conclusions.

"I turned myself blue by sneezing," Jo said, sounding bored. "When that happened, it looked to me like there were only two possible reasons for it: either I'd been infected by some unheard-of disease, or I'd just done a real-life magic trick. Both of these were equally outrageous to me, so I waited until there was more evidence before coming to a conclusion. When your two 'oblivators' walked in here, having somehow not alerted any of the other kids, having gotten past the locked front door, and immediately hit Mother Clarion with what looked like a spell from what were clearly wands of some sort, it became obvious to me that the second possibility was the only one which could reasonably explain everything that was happening. I pulled off a magic trick, they did the same, and so we must have the same power. That's what went through my head, at least."

And it had been what went through his head. An extremely abstract, generalized version of it, but the same string of thought nonetheless.

Lane's smile widened a smidge. "You have quite the vocabulary for one so young."

Jo shrugged. "I get that a lot."

"Your story sounds plausible, Jo," Lane said, closing his eyes. "Not likely, but plausible. And I get the impression that you're a rather peculiar boy, so I suppose I can stand to believe it. Just out of curiosity, what else have you managed to figure out about us wizards with that brain of yours?"

It was a trap. That's what Jo thought right away, and he frowned, trying to recall every detail about the wizarding world that he'd seen firsthand during the past few minutes. Two possibilities presented themselves to him once more: either it _was_ a trap, and Lane thought that Jo was trying to determine how much of his own wizarding knowledge was safe to reveal (which was the case), or it wasn't a trap at all, and Lane thought that Jo was merely trying to piece together all the evidence that he'd seen into some sort of unified hypothesis. Either way, Jo knew he must only give them the story that would make sense with all the observations he'd made since his initial bout of accidental magic, making sure not to say anything that held even an ounce of context he couldn't have known otherwise. He couldn't just play dumb either. Lane now knew he was smart enough to make educated guesses. So, all that in mind, Jo began.

"There's a lot more wizards out there, right?" he said.

Lane nodded. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, you said you were the head of some department. That means that you're part of a structured organization or institution, and apparently it's one that was formed to keep magic a secret like you guys did here."

"That's right. But you said 'a lot' more of us. Why do you think there are 'a lot' as opposed to 'some' or 'a few'?"

Jo paused, thinking not of what he wanted to say, but of whether he should. Ultimately, he decided he'd already shown enough of his cards that one more wouldn't hurt.

"Because your department doesn't profit from its labor," he said, and for the first time, he saw Lane's eyes widen ever so slightly.

Jo fought the urge to smirk. He couldn't contextualize the wizarding world with information he shouldn't know, but the fact is that the wizarding world wasn't some alternate reality entirely separate from the one in which "Muggles" lived. Wizards were still people, and so their world had to function just like the normal one did, only with a bit of magic added. Little five-year-old Jo might be technically incapable of knowing how the wizarding world worked, but he'd already outed himself as someone who knew how _people_ worked, so why not use that to his advantage?

"The way you all conducted this memory-erasing, it's clear that no private party _paid_ you to do it. No, you do it because it's a _public_ service, because, as you said, wizards like their secrecy. Your budget must come from some sort of public fund, likely through a government of some kind. On top of all that, your men found out about and responded to my magic trick fairly quickly, meaning that your department or perhaps the wider governing structure which it is a part of has magical infrastructure in place that alerts it to what you call 'accidental magic'. The only way to keep such a complex operation afloat, both in terms of labor and financial resources, is to have a large population from which to tax its revenue."

Lane and McGonagall were left truly speechless, and Jo finally got the particular satisfaction that came from blowing people's minds. That said, he also knew it wouldn't hurt to insert some humility into his explanation, if only to make himself as trustworthy as possible.

"At least, that's what I'm pretty sure is true," Jo said. "For all I know, you guys could just have a magical solution to needing taxes. Do you guys even really need money?"

Jo knew that wizards _used_ money, but the idea that they _needed_ it had always seemed rather strange to him even as he read the books. Could wizards create food from nothing, or transfigure it from a non-organic source? Did the _aguamenti_ spell actually quench one's thirst, or were its properties only illusory? The need for money only really came from limited resources, and from what Jo knew, it was possible that this problem didn't even exist for wizards in the first place. From what he remembered, J.K. Rowling had never been entirely clear on the details.

"You are… certainly special, Jo, I don't doubt that at all now," Lane said, still blinking owlishly at him. "I suppose there's no need to carry on with this. You're a bit young for a muggleborn, but I get the feeling I can trust you to keep our secret."

"It's my secret now too, Mr. Lane," Jo said.

"Of course." Lane stood up, straightening his tie. "Now, I believe Minerva has something for you."

Jo looked at McGonagall, who he only now realized had stayed entirely silent throughout that whole exchange. She looked him up and down, face as stern as ever, measuring him still. Finally, she sighed and reached into the purse slung on her arm, pulling out an enclosed envelope.

"As Mr. Lane said, you are a bit young, Mr. Claymont. _Too_ young, by my estimation," she said, walking towards him, holding out the envelope. "But if you're to be aware of our world, I think it's only right that you're also aware of your place in it."

He had a feeling he already knew what the envelope was for, but Jo took it nonetheless. Not wasting a moment, he opened it and pulled out the folded slip of paper inside. It was a letter addressed to him.

 _Mister Joseph Claymont_

 _Saint Nicholas Orphanage, 2_ _nd_ _floor, Corner room by the stairs, bottom bunk_

 _112 Burnell Avenue_

 _London, England_

 _Dear Mr. Claymont,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._ _Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on September 1, 1991. We await your owl by no later than July 31, 1991._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall_

 _Deputy Headmistress_

"1991, huh? A bit early to be getting this, don't you think?" Jo said, looking up at McGonagall.

"I wasn't meaning to give you this letter today, Mr. Claymont, but I'm afraid you forced my hand," McGonagall said. She reached up to adjust her glasses. "I was assuming that you would be confunded, as most muggleborn children are whenever they perform any accidental magic. Your unnatural feats would've seemed strange yet possible to you, nothing to be particularly worried about. Of course, it seems that Mr. Lane has judged, quite accurately, that subtle mind tricks wouldn't work on one such as you. The fact is, you wouldn't be able to leave such unusual occurrences well enough alone, would you?"

Jo shook his head.

"I thought not. So, since I know we cannot trick you into avoiding magic until you're ready, I will instead be perfectly frank. Do not attempt to perform any more 'magic tricks' until you are in Hogwarts grounds. This isn't only for secrecy's sake, but also for your safety and the safety of others. As intelligent as I know you are, magic is a very dangerous thing indeed, and an initiate should not practice it without supervision. Am I understood?"

Jo looked at her, face blank. "Why not let me attend the school now, then?" he said. "I'd do well, even if I'm five."

"I'm sure you would," McGonagall said. "But unfortunately, that's not how magic works."

"Why not?"

"That, Mr. Claymont, is something you'll find out when you come to Hogwarts."

Jo smiled. He couldn't help it. Behind McGonagall's no-nonsense approach, he could tell there was a bit of sass. "Alright. I won't use magic. See you in six years, professor."

"Six years it is. And save that letter, Mr. Claymont. Whenever you get the urge to satisfy your curiosity about magic, as I'm sure you will, take a look at the date written there. We will know if you don't."

Jo waved at them as they left. When he was alone, he held the letter out in front of him once more, reading it over again. He read the necessary books and equipment list. He read the date. _September 1, 1991_. He thought of the events that he now knew he would be a part of. Or, alternatively, the events that he could avoid being a part of. And so, for possibly the first time in either of his lives, Jo found that he needed some sort of tangible plan for his future.

 _Well then,_ he thought. _I guess it's time to work on that._

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Thank you for reading. I've not seen anything quite like this on this site, so hopefully it's worked out alright so far. If it's your kind of thing, please follow or favorite the story. If you have any comments, please review it. I appreciate any support I get.**

 **Until next time.**


	2. Robes and Wands

**2\. Robes and Wands**

* * *

Six years passed.

McGonagall was the one who came to pick him up. Jo was perhaps more surprised by this than by anything else which happened to him that day. He didn't ask about it, partially because it didn't seem to matter, but it felt to him like more than mere coincidence.

She had found the two of them a taxi. Jo figured it must've been because disapparating in front of any muggles would've been more of a hassle than necessary. The ride to the Leaky Cauldron was made in silence, and this was because, if Jo were honest with himself, he felt a little nervous. It was the same anxious feeling he got before going to any public event full of strangers—a sort of crowding in the stomach, as if he'd eaten a balloon and it were only inflating in digestion. He'd never quite figured out whether it was simple excitement or an understated sort of panic.

Of course, this had to happen, he supposed, as in these sorts of stories there was always a chapter or two dedicated to it. The hero had to gear up, after all. And in _Harry Potter_ —as well as all the fan stories which _Harry Potter_ produced—that gearing up only ever happened in one location.

And so, after twenty minutes in the car and another half a minute crossing the Cauldron—which looked like any other pub, really—the two of them stood in front of a tall brick wall and Jo finally saw McGonagall pull out her wand. She tapped a few of the bricks in sequence, and the moment she was done, the wall began shifting, coming apart and back together again like a bunch of Legos, transforming into an arch that widened out into the whole back lot. Looking through it, Jo got his first look at the real Diagon Alley.

It was what you'd expect by now. A winding, narrow cobblestone path separating buildings of all shapes and sizes, some simple cottages and others big, multi-tiered flats. There were signs on top of or beside every door, and wide windows showing off clothed mannequins which posed and waved at vying customers, caged birds and cats and various mammalian creatures Jo had never even heard of. There were chimneys as low as his own head, some circular and even sideways, all of them exhaling smoke, some of it blue or red or purple, so that the air carried with it banners of pure color. Some wizards sold their goods outside, surrounded by pots and cauldrons boiling with thick, oily goop which they would jar up and pass to robed buyers, or behind stands full of wrapped delicacies and small knickknacks, all of which seemed alive and sometimes unconstrained by the table they sat on.

But most of all, the alley was _crowded_ , the most crowded place Jo had ever been to. Colorfully robed men and pointy-hatted women shoved each other out of the way, raised their bags over one another to cross from one door to the next, haggled in shouts with salesmen and with each other, screamed out their greetings, argued with people looking out from their windows across all floors.

"It really is a wonder how you manage to keep such a straight face at a sight like this," McGonagall said, looking down at him, her own face straighter than polished steel. "Every other muggleborn child I've ever accompanied here had to be convinced that they weren't dreaming."

Jo shrugged. "It's almost like an amusement park. Except it's all real magic instead of fancy decorations." He crossed the arch and looked back at her. "So, where to first?"

McGonagall shook her head, walking with him. She held out her hand as they neared the crowd. "Come on then, no reason for us to get separated in all this mess."

He took her hand without argument. If he were twenty years younger—mentally younger that is—he might've been embarrassed at being treated like such a child. But he was mature enough to recognize that, at the moment at least, he _was_ a child in body if nothing else. And he also didn't think he could get through the alley on his own without getting lost. The movies and Universal Studios were one thing, but being there in person made it clear that there was a much bigger chance for such a thing, the alley splitting and bending like branches from a tree trunk at every opportunity.

"First thing's first: we really ought to get you something to wear that isn't so muggle, unless you'd like to keep getting started at by your new countrymen," McGonagall said.

"I did notice that," Jo said, even now feeling the eyes on his back as they weaved through the crowd. "I take it that most wizards don't take a trip out to my side of town like you did a while back?"

"That's right, Mr. Claymont. Most that do only do so on business, as Mr. Lane and I did when we came to meet you. Sometimes, you'll find an eccentric or two that take some interest in muggle affairs, but those are quite rare indeed."

"And do you ever get any muggles who want to learn about wizards?"

"I presume you're asking if any do ever find out about us."

"Well, this place seems fairly big to sit in the middle of London and not get seen, what with airplanes and everything." Not to mention satellite technology, but that's not really something Jo wanted to get into at the moment.

"Magic takes account for it, as it so often does," McGonagall said. "There are some spells which… well, they fill up the space, so to speak. Making the whole thing invisible would be possible, of course, but you well know how muggles would likely react to a whole subsection of their city being effectively open space. You can think of Diagon Alley and other places like it as being far bigger on the inside than on the outside."

"Is it the same for every building here, then? Could everyone technically own a castle in a box?"

"Unfortunately for all of us, Mr. Claymont, things are no quite so simple. Use of the Undetectable Extension Charm is strictly regulated by the Ministry of Magic. You'll find that your school trunk will fit everything you need, but most wizards must apply to have the same done to their homes."

"The secrecy thing, right?"

"Quite. It'd be an awkward thing to explain why a muggle can break into what looks like a shack and turn out a mansion, even if it is by accident."

"Do wizards even live that close to muggles anyway?"

"Some choose to. There are wizarding neighborhoods all through London, and they keep to themselves. Most live away from Muggles, whole towns of wizards hidden much the same way that this place is. A few even stick it out in the country, where no one has much opportunity to bother them."

"So why not let them use this extension charm? It really doesn't seem like there's much of a chance for trouble after all."

"The decisions of our Ministry are not under my control, Mr. Claymont. If they were, I can tell you that much would be different. Alas, I suppose that's a fairly common sentiment among all people everywhere when it comes to their government."

Jo could've responded that such a sentiment was exactly the problem that something like a representative democracy was built to solve, but he didn't for three reasons: First, he didn't know whether the Ministry of Magic _was_ democratically run (though he doubted it, considering the events of the books), two, he was well aware that citizens of democratic systems were themselves usually unhappy with their government regardless, and three, he and McGonagall just then reached "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions."

What followed was a lengthy shopping session consisting of acquiring robes (which he was made to change into immediately), a pointed hat (which he did not need to be made to wear), a winter cloak, troll hide gloves, a trunk (which he walked into as soon as he got it, just to see if he could fit. It was quite spacious), all his books, quills and ink (which he determined he wouldn't use, as pens really were much more efficient), a pewter cauldron, a set of phials, a telescope (which he really couldn't imagine a need for, but was pleased to get nonetheless), brass scales, and finally, an owl. It was brown, black-spotted, and adorably angry-looking, and Jo named it Tootsiepop because he thought it'd be funny. It was.

All of these school supplies had been paid for by the financial aid fund he'd been given by Hogwarts. McGonagall had told him he'd been fortunate enough to be unfortunate enough to qualify for it, the first time he'd seen her actually make a joke. It was the first time in a long time that Jo was made aware of his status as an orphan, something which he didn't take all that seriously most of the time since his memories were full of the two loving and completely adequate parents whom he's left behind in his previous life.

Jo really hoped that, if he were in some story after all—something which he decided couldn't be proven or disproven after six years of not much progress in the area—whoever was writing it would skip over this part. It was always the most boring to read, after all. The original story had gotten away with it because it had been the first, and therefore the most novel, but all of its fan-made offshoots had gotten rather repetitive. It was the mark of a good story to skip over any uninteresting material, as in many ways, the only thing which truly separated a story from the events of real life was the ability to do just that.

The last thing to get was a wand. Jo was sure McGonagall had ensured that this would be their last stop, likely for dramatic effect.

They stood outside a little, narrow shop with faded gold letters over the door that read "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C." McGonagall turned to him, and he noted that her face had softened a tad since they first met that day outside St. Nicholas Orphanage. He'd been badgering her all through their shopping trip, asking menial questions to sate his own curiosity, nothing quite as important as what he'd be trying to tackle at Hogwarts. He recognized then that, aside from the hand-holding, she'd treated him as he would expect any adult to treat another adult. There had been no speaking down to. No need for chastisement.

She seemed to realize this too. "I was going to ask whether you broke your promise to not play with magic, but I get the feeling that you didn't."

Jo smiled. "Like you said, I'd learn it at Hogwarts."

"Can I ask why you didn't? Most children your age would've likely been too tempted."

"Aside from knowing that doing so might get me expelled before I stepped foot in school?"

"Aside from that."

"Well, you did have a point that trying to figure it out on my own would've been dangerous. I mean, after that I did get into a few incidents of accidental magic, and those were dangerous enough on their own." He still remembered the time his hand went right through a tree he'd been leaning on. It had recorporealized right as he pulled it out, luckily enough, because he still cringed every time he thought about what could've happened if it had done so while still inside the wood. "But I guess the reason is that I told you I wouldn't. What other reason do I need than that?"

At this, McGonagall gave him a brief, small smile of her own, the first he'd seen from her. "None whatsoever, Mr. Claymont. Let's go inside."

Inside was just as small as outside. All there was to speak of was a chair by the corner, the counter, and stacks upon stacks of narrow boxes reaching up to the ceiling, some in equally tall shelves, most simply piling up on the floor. It was all covered by a thin layer of dust, and Jo fought the urge not to sneeze himself blue again upon walking in.

Ollivander himself sat behind the counter, head in his hands. Jo noticed that the man was looking at them before the door had so much as closed behind them. Looking at him. Jo got the strange feeling that Ollivander had been looking at him since before he'd even walked inside, as if expecting him.

"Exceptional," Ollivander said, standing up. He walked slowly towards them, a hand on his chin, the other on his hip. "How exceptional. I wasn't expecting you at all."

Jo looked up at McGonagall, and she shook her head at him, sighing in exasperation.

"Mr. Ollivander, if we could please skip the prophesying for once," she said.

The man was undeterred. "Oh, Minerva. As wound up as ever, I see. Your wand still serving you fine, I take it?"

"I've never had much trouble with it, as you know."

"Yes," Ollivander said, looking around his shop as if for a ghost. "Fir and dragon heartstring, if I remember correctly. A most stubborn one. I'm sure you both get along quite nicely yet."

It didn't seem to be said as an insult, and McGonagall didn't take it as such. "This is just his way, Mr. Claymont," she said, arms crossed. She went to the chair by the corner, casting a spell to clean it off before she sat down. "As I tell all the students whom I take here, I'd warn you against studying wandmaking, for your sanity's sake."

Jo looked at Ollivander, who was already looking through the stacks of wands, muttering something under his breath, finger roaming through every label. "I find that any true passion drives its holder insane, McGonagall," he said, amused. "It seems to be part of the deal."

"That right there!" Ollivander said, suddenly pointing at Jo. His other hand pulled out one of the small boxes. "So eager to find the value in everything..." He walked to Jo, unboxing the wand and holding it out for him. "Sycamore and unicorn hair. Try it."

Jo looked at the wand, hesitating only a moment, before taking it. A tingle shot up his arm like an electric shock, but it died as fast as it came. He waved it around, pointed it at the floor, and nothing much happened except for kicking up a small puff of dust.

"I don't think this is working very well," he said, giving the wand back.

"Certainly not," Ollivander said. He took the wand and put it back in its box, then put the box back where he'd first pulled it from. Finger out, he then began going through the labels again, reading up and down the stacks. "Do you have any preferences, Mr. Claymont?"

"Uh… Does that matter?"

"In some ways, no. The wand chooses the wizard, ultimately. But a wand can't choose a wizard that does not choose it back. The attraction must in some sense be a shared one." Here Ollivander hummed, frowning. "And I must also admit, I'm finding this somewhat difficult, so help would be appreciated."

"Oh. Well, I guess I'd like it to not be curved, if that makes sense."

"Any reason?"

"I could say I think it makes holding it harder, but to be honest, I just think it'd look cooler if my wand was straight."

Even as he said it, Jo recognized the innuendo. The other two adults in the room didn't comment on it, so he didn't either.

But now that he thought about it, how were wizards with, let's say, non-standard sexual preferences? Judging by their somewhat more intensely structured society, wherein the people didn't seem to have much choice in the matter of lawmaking, and wherein blood purity was apparently a big enough topic to inspire whole series-spanning conflict, Jo didn't think they'd be all that open to the idea. No wonder J. K. Rowling had made it a point to only introduce such things after the fact, as vaguely grimy as it was to do. The wizarding world likely wouldn't have allowed for its open practice while still keeping internal consistency.

 _I guess I can just bring that one up whenever I get around to the whole House-Elves-might-actually-be-brainwashed-indentured-servants thing,_ Jo thought. _Or should it be when I get around to wizard-racism-is-actually-counter-intuitive-to-your-survival? Ugh._

"A mission. I can see it in your eyes, young man," Ollivander said. He pulled out another box, and when he gave him the wand inside, Jo saw that it was a polished white, as if carved from alabaster. "Aspen and dragon heartstring. Let's see how this one suits you."

Jo took it and pointed it at a stack of other wands. The stack exploded. He gave the wand back. "I'd rather not do that to the things I point at, thank you."

"You aren't the only one," McGonagall said, having been watching it all in silence.

Ollivander put the wand back in the box and tossed the box into the newly formed, ramshackle pile. "Yes. Too insistent, I suppose. Wait." He looked at Jo queerly. "Could it be…"

Jo gave him a flat look. "Please don't step into cliché, sir."

"Possibly, yes," Ollivander said, ignoring him and walking towards the counter. He got on top of it and, standing on his toes, was just barely able to reach a box nestled high against the wall. When he came back down, he was already taking the wand out.

"Here you are," he said. "Have at it."

The wand was a dark brown, the color of wet earth. A single, spiraling line was carved on its side, thinning as it reached its sharpened tip.

Jo grabbed it, and was immediately sure that the wand was his. It felt as if he'd just regained a limb he hadn't even known he was missing. The balloon in his stomach, which had been only slowly deflating as the day went on, popped, so that he felt completely at home for the first time since he walked into Diagon Alley. _For the first time since I got to this world,_ he thought, and recognized the truth in that statement.

He pointed it at the ceiling, and all he saw was light. It killed every shadow in the room, it gleamed off the storefront windows, it glistened from Ollivander's skin and McGonagall's skin and his own skin.

Until then, everything had seemed as it was to him before coming there; as a storybook, with characters as opposed to people, settings as opposed to places, and plots as opposed to daily living. The difference between each of these things had never seemed as clear to him as it was now, and that difference was simply that, with this wand in his hand, he belonged to this place and time. There was nothing now but pure, honest engagement.

And he realized too, looking back through his memories of this new life, that there didn't seem to be much of a plot at all. He still experienced every single, monotonous, routine, some might say _boring_ day after the next. These days were meaningful to him in the same way that anyone's daily life was meaningful, for in the end, monotonous, routine, and boring days where what made up the largest bulk of that life. He'd established friendships with his fellow orphaned children and with his schoolmates, had gone on misadventures with Mother Clarion whenever she needed to get shopping done, had at some point found an injured rabbit out in the park and nursed it back to health, had won the local spelling bee after being pushed into competing by his English teacher despite his own protests, had been interviewed by a reporter for his exceptionally fast-paced movement through school (he'd re-graduated high school a year before, and had chosen not to go to college because of his coming magical education). He'd even had a few more bouts of accidental magic, some of which had led to lengthy and even comical escapades where he had to keep his now enlarged fingers or furred cheeks hidden from view on his way home. The fact was, Jo had lived a full and complete life as of yet, as full as anyone might be expected to live, and though to an outside observer his journey to Diagon Alley with McGonagall could've seemed like some big dramatic event, to him it was just another day, one which only happened to show magic in more straightforward ways.

But I seem to be getting carried away, so I'll now return to the story.

The light died out, and soon enough Jo had to blink away the spots in his eyes. He looked down at his wand, a stick of wood once more, but even now he could feel it hum in his hand, a chord, like silent music resonating with his own voiceless song.

"Black walnut and phoenix feather," Ollivander said. He was smiling softly, looking not at the wand but at Jo. "You've impressed it."

"How's that?" Jo said, voice low.

"That's rather difficult to say. I've always found this wand to be rather fickle, you see." Ollivander began walking back to the counter, and McGonagall stood up to follow him to it. "I advise you to not change too much, Mr. Claymont, for your wand's sake."

"Not change at all?"

"Of course, change must come when it must come. It's our ability to hold on to what matters most in the face of that change which defines us. Change who you are, Mr. Claymont, but don't change who you could be. Do this, and I imagine your wand will be very happy with you indeed."

Many things came to Jo's mind then. Of course, he knew about the process of character development. Not in terms of fiction, but in terms of psychology (because really, when you get down to it, these two are ultimately the same thing). He knew his Aristotle and his Jung. He'd read the works of Pope and of Freud and of Eliot. He knew all these smart men and women who had laid out to him in words what it might mean to become something new yet old in action.

But things had always been abstract in his studies. The applicability had always been interpreted, usefully so, but subjectively nonetheless. And now, in his hand, he held the instrument of his future self. He held, effectively, a thermometer, one which would tell him if he were too hot or too cold, one which would judge him at every step of his personal growth.

"That's gonna be hard," Jo said, a shiver, already feeling the icy fingers of _something_ scratch at his back.

"As you well know, but have yet to understand," Ollivander said, smiling, "everything worthwhile must be paid for with effort."

McGonagall took out her purse for the last time that day. "I don't really see what it is you two are talking about, but here's the seven gallons, Mr. Ollivander. Please, do try not to scare any more students this year.

Ollivander took the gold coins, putting them somewhere under the counter. McGonagall walked back to Jo and, taking him by the shoulder, led him to the door.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Ollivander said as they left. "Do come back, if the need is ever there."

"I hope it isn't," Jo said, and he took McGonagall's hand of his own prerogative then, as they waded into the mid-afternoon crowd, on his way home to prepare for the next seven years.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, and thank you to those who follow, favorite, or review.**


	3. Trains and Stories

**3\. Trains and Stories**

* * *

Jo looked around King's Cross Station. People were minding their own business, generally. Some sat down on benches along the walls, reading newspapers (remember those?), chatting, even aimlessly looking around like he was. Most speedwalked along the hall, a cup of coffee in hand, luggage rolling behind them, eyes set forward.

He'd been sitting next to Platform Nine and Tree-Quarters for the better part of ten minutes, just watching. Every once in a while, a wizarding family would come by, glance around to see if anyone was watching, completely miss the fact that he was, and dash right through the wall as if there were nothing strange in it. Not for the first time, Jo wondered why Hogwarts students were required to go to such a public place to get to school. Wizards could teleport with fireplaces, old boots, or even on their own magic, yet for some reason here they were, actively risking the very secrecy they placed so much value in by inexplicably phasing through solid brick in one of the most public areas of the country. Brilliant.

There was no need to be cynical about it, though. Jo figured that there were charms in place to keep muggles from figuring things out. The confundus charm, or the notice-me-not, or a combination made with several similar spells. Even so, it seemed like an unnecessarily convoluted process. Couldn't there be some other magical train station built specifically for wizards? Or why not just get rid of the whole Hogwarts Express idea altogether and just teleport everyone there?

Jo considered the problems that might come from such a thing. Of course, it would probably be a bad idea to allow anyone to just teleport into the one magical school in the area. And having students arrive anyway they wished would cause its own problems, not the least of which was the possibility of muggle sightings. Whoever had instituted the train system likely thought it a grand idea, one that would decrease the risk of discovery by muggles, transport all the students at once to avoid any late-comers, and generally solve every problem they had in years before.

And yet, as Jo watched another wizarding family practically stomp through the platform wall, he could already think of ways to do that without having to resort to such inconvenient means. Why not have some secure area, a big hall or even a rural field, to which students could teleport any way they could? From there, Hogwarts was free to provide an express-like method of transportation onto the school proper. It was basically what Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was already, since students and their families had to arrive at King's Cross on their own, and everyone most likely teleported from home to some discreet spot nearby anyway. It would be exactly the same set-up as what Hogwarts had now, only it wouldn't necessitate wizards melding into solid matter right under muggle noses.

 _Oh well,_ Jo thought, _better not be any later than I have to be._

It had all been a purely curious endeavor anyway, to see how it was that this worked. That, and he needed to ensure that he would be one of the last to board. In the end, it didn't really matter to him all that much. And so, Jo stood from the bench he sat on, took his wheeled trunk, and sped right towards the wall, not being able to stop himself from flinching a bit as he crossed through the invisible barrier and onto the magical platform proper.

The first thing Jo saw was a young Emma Watson pulling on her father's sleeve, babbling about some spell or other, her mother watching alongside a small stack of briefcases. He panicked, immediately turning away and offering the family of three a very, very wide berth as he headed straight through the crowd of loving parents and whining children towards the open train doors.

Objective #1 of his Ultimate Plan to Not Fuck Things Up: Do not help, obstruct, talk to, glance at, or otherwise interact with any of the primary characters for the first three years of school unless absolutely necessary. This was nonnegotiable. His thought process was very simple: as dangerous as things get for all the Hogwarts students in the books, no one actually dies. They get battered, petrified, deboned, chilled, likely (clearly) traumatized, assaulted by dark lords, assaulted by death ghosts, poisoned, abused, on and on; it's a real bad time, all things considered. But none of them die, and that's a track record Jo wanted to adhere to. If he changed things in any major way, either through a stray comment or some well-intended act, those dangerous situations—which the characters happen to live through more by luck than much else—might just truly kill one or more of the kids whom he would now call classmates. Hell, the only reason anyone seemed to survive the basilisk at all was because everyone who got petrified _just so happened_ to look at it indirectly. It was such a ridiculously fortunate series of events that Jo couldn't help but classify it as a quasi-plot hole.

He'd considered all the things he might do if he were to involve himself directly so early on. Stopping Pettigrew was high up on the list of possibilities. It wouldn't be too difficult, probably, at least if the creep stayed in his rat form. Take Ginny's horcrux diary away from her. Un-turban Quirrell. But these strategies could backfire, and since Jo already knew how the story went without his presence, keeping himself out of it was the surest method he could think of to make things as relatively safe as possible.

This would change, of course, during their fourth year, when one of the students did finally go ahead and die. At that point, Jo figured he might as well step in, because it technically wouldn't be his fault if someone was going to die anyway. So he'd try to save Cedric, and hopefully stop Voldemort from resurrecting, which led to Objective #2: Until then, learn as much magic as humanly possible. Simply put, magic was the key. He didn't hold any high hopes of becoming some overpowered monster; the reason he'd done so well at school in his second life was all due to his prior experience, not because of any inherent genius. And magic, though he knew many of its spells and inner workings from having read the books, was otherwise an altogether new thing for him. But if he tried his best, and dedicated all his time to it, he reasoned that he could at least get good enough at it to be of some use when the time came.

Aside from these two things, as well as a few other more minor goals, Jo had avoided getting too specific with his plotting. After all, it was entirely possible—probable, in fact—that his very existence had already irrevocably changed things. Any minor action on his part would likely have rippling consequences which he couldn't even conceive of. It wasn't like he could isolate himself to such an extent that he would have no effect on any of the people around him; that was impossible. The briefest pause in conversation caused by his mere presence in the halls on his way to class or in his dorm room would likely have some bearing in all the various, networked relationships created throughout the castle. It was highly likely, then, that any carefully laid plans would be rendered useless, and so creating any clear roadmap would not only be wasteful, but actively detrimental, as it would hamper his need to improvise when needed.

So, when Jo walked through the narrow train hall, looking into the rooms to see if any were open, he didn't stop at the sight of a despondent-looking boy with unruly black hair and a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. He merely blinked and moved on. They would get the chance to talk later. One day.

* * *

Jo ended up finding a room with adequately unimportant people. A fellow by the name of Wayne Hopkins, and two girls named Sue Li and Tracey Davis. None of them played a role in the original story aside from perhaps being named, at least from what he was aware of. He knew that Tracey in particular was somewhat popular for a character who had never gotten any of the spotlight, but this seemed more a result of fanon than anything else.

He was already used to spending time with kids "his age." He'd gotten a whole decade of it, in fact. On top of that, he had a lot of experience when it came to starting at a new school, not knowing anybody. It was something he'd gotten used to, not only in this life with skipping so many grades, but in his previous life as well, constantly moving around as he had.

The kids he was with were all silent, Wayne staring out the window at the passing landscape, Sue reading a book (a muggle novel, from the looks of it), and Tracey simply looking down at her hands. It was beginning to get awkward.

There was always one surefire way to make any situation not awkward. Jo had learned it after much toil in his previous life, and out of all his skills and know-how, it was the most useful. Reader, if this is a problem for you, pay very close attention, because this is guaranteed to work 100% of the time unless you're dealing with people who you wouldn't want to interact with anyway.

Jo asked a question.

"So, any of you guys know any magic yet?"

The three looked at him. He stared back. When they saw the focus he was placing on them, they all began shifting in their seats, unconsciously beginning to face him in return. Wayne leaned against the wall back-first instead of face-first. Sue put her book down on her lap. Tracey's head rose.

The most useful social strategy of all: sincere attention.

"Um… No," Wayne said. He sounded Irish. "I mean, me mum's shown me magic an' all, but I don't know none of it yet, I guess."

Jo's eyes went to his. "Wait, your mom's a wizard? What about your dad?"

"He's a muggle. I'm a half-blood, y'know, at least they tell me that, so I known about it, but they never let me do none of it. Wasn't safe yet, or somethin'."

"Hey, that's pretty cool though," Jo said, smiling. "I didn't even know about magic until I sneezed myself blue when I was five. Honestly, I thought I was gonna die for a second."

Tracey let out a snort at that, and Jo saw that Wayne was smiling too. Sue seemed ready to follow them there, but Jo figured she was a bit more shy than the others. Now for step number two: tell a funny story.

Jo leaned forward. "There was one time," he said, voice a bit lower. The the three kids leaned in as well, seemingly without them knowing. "We're not allowed to eat candy whenever we want, since Mother Clarion thinks it's unhealthy. Well, unless it's Halloween, but that's different. Anyway, we had a chocolate bar in the fridge. Mother Clarion—she's the one that takes care of me—she always keeps one there to give me as a gift at the end of the week, because I'm totally her favorite. There's a little corner where she hides them behind the OJ box and yogurt packets, and she thinks I don't know about it, but I found out like three years ago since they're always cold when she gives them to me." At this he had to chuckle, because he really did think it very silly how utterly grandmaish Mother Clarion could be. His chuckle drew out the same from the others, more subdued, but apparent. "So one day I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water, and I saw one of the other kids reach into the fridge. I think she was looking for a juice box or something, but she ended up finding my chocolate bar, and obviously she was all happy about it. I mean, who wouldn't be, right"

Wayne and Tracey nodded, the latter a bit more fervently, while Sue kept quiet, but Jo saw her eyes on him, noted that she'd dog-eared her book and put it beside her. He continued.

"So this girl starts jumping around all happy right in front of me, and then she looks around to see if anyone caught her. She sees me, but we're friends and everything, so I guess she thought I wouldn't tell. And of course I wouldn't, I'm not a snitch, but that was _my_ chocolate! She starts unwrapping it, and she's pretty much drooling all over this thing, just about to take a bite." Jo made the same gesture the girl would've, hand nearing his open mouth. "and she does!" He chomped down with a click. "But! Then she starts screaming and spitting it out on the floor. She drops the chocolate bar and goes to the sink, starts washing her mouth, and the whole time she's saying 'eww, eww, eww!' You know why?" The others shook their heads, eyes wide. Jo laughed and leaned back. "I turned the chocolate into mud! She swallowed a whole bunch of it too!"

They joined him in his laugh. They sat there, the four of them, just laughing for a bit. It wasn't gut-wrenching, but it was good-spirited and pure, and the room felt suddenly light, like no time was passing at all.

"It just happened," Jo said, smiling. "I wouldn't have if I knew! It's not like I could eat the mud either, you know."

"That's pretty good," Tracey said, laughter dying down. "But you shoulda seen me this one day, when I forgot to do my history homework. Well, maybe I didn't _forget_ really, but the point is I didn't have it, right? Mr. VanScott starts walking around the class checking to see if we have it, and my notebook's all empty. We have to hold it out for him on our desks, and he looks at them for a bit to make sure it's not just a fake. So he's looking around at everyone, and I start getting really scared cuz he's getting close to me. Then he's right there next to me, and he's looking down, and I wait for him to get mad at me since that's how he always gets when someone forgets their homework. But nothing happens! He just says 'good work' and keeps walking like there was nothing wrong!" She crossed her arms, back straightening in pride. "I'm pretty sure I mind-controlled him or something, since my notebook was still empty, but he ended up giving me a hundred that day anyway!"

Jo put a hand on his chin, only half indulging her. "I didn't know we could mind-control people just like that," he said, and he wasn't even being disingenuous. He remembered the mind-arts, legilimency and occlumency, but he'd thought them high-level enough that they should've been outside the bounds of accidental magic.

 _She might just be remembering it wrong,_ Jo thought, _or she might've even pulled some other trick. But I guess it's something worth keeping in mind. Magic works in mysterious ways, I guess._

"One time, I got a bunch of animals to start followin' me home," Wayne said. "Strays, y'know? I knocked on the door even tho I knew it was open, just cuz I knew Pop wouldn't be too happy if I brought a whole buncha new pets home. When he opened the door, I had to have half the town starin' and the whole street was clogged with dogs an' cats an' all sorts of other critters. There were pidgeons an' rabbits too, and even some frogs I think. I always wanted a pet, and I guess I'd been badgerin' my folks about it, but that's not really what I was thinkin', y'know. We had to wait for mum to get back and fix it, so me an' him ended up sittin' out on the porch with all of 'em for an hour or two."

"Did you get in trouble with your parents?" Jo said.

"You bet your ass I did," Wayne mumbled, and they all laughed. "Two weeks grounded."

"Shows what you know," Tracey said, and somehow she managed to sit up straighter. "I never even got caught for all mine, not once."

"Tell me when you get a hundred mutts sniffin' at _your_ feet."

Jo turned to Sue. "What about you? Any crazy stories?"

She started at the attention, but after a moment turned her head up, thinking. Then her cheeks reddened, and she looked down at her lap.

"What is it?" Jo said. He nudged her arm. "C'mon, I know you thought of _something_. I can see it on your face."

"It's kinda weird," Sue said.

"Can't be any weirder than pied piper over here," Tracey said, pointing a thumb at Wayne. He scowled at her, and Jo might've said something about over-teasing, but he was honestly too impressed by such a reference coming from an eleven-year-old.

Either way, it seemed to draw Sue out. "I… Well…"

The other three leaned in.

"I… made someone poop their pants."

They stared at her, silent. She looked at them, eyes going from one to the next, face growing redder by the second. Then, all three started laughing hysterically.

Tracey found some space in between wheezes to get a few words out. "How'd you pull that one off?" she asked, each word punctuated by a giggle.

"I dunno!" Sue said, tomato-faced, but she looked happy now that everyone else was pleased. "He was being annoying, and I wanted him to go away."

"I bet that got him outta your hair alright!" Wayne said, hands on his stomach.

"I think you win, Sue," Jo said, shaking his head. "I can't top that."

"Me neither," Wayne said.

Tracey held her hand out. "Wait, I got another one! So, this one time…"

* * *

The others had fallen asleep. Jo watched them, then looked out the window at the darkening sky. The sun was beginning to set, and Jo could see that the train was chugging along past some rather rocky terrain now. It seemed they were almost to the castle.

They'd changed into their school uniforms, which ended up being comfier than Jo had been expecting. His were secondhand, and the sleeves were a bit too long on him, but he'd never been one to complain about clothes, especially ones he'd effectively gotten for free.

Food had been provided, of course. Turkey and cheese sandwiches, as well as obscene amounts of candy. Chocolate frog wrappers littered their seats—well, more Wayne and Tracey's seats than his. He'd called it quits after three, as much as it pained him. Health and nutrition were forever on his mind now, even if he'd have liked to take advantage of his young body's ability to avoid the consequences of bad dietary decisions until years into the future.

They were good kids, Jo thought. Wayne was a bit coarse, but it wasn't like Jo could claim to be a linguistic saint when he was at that age. Tracey's attitude thankfully came off as more endearing than arrogant, though it was still something she'd probably have to grow out of sooner rather than later. And Sue… Well, even now, Jo himself wasn't exactly a man of many words. She was by far the sweetest out of all of them, and that was a big plus in his book.

He tried to guess what houses they'd be placed in. Tracey was a fairly obvious candidate for Slytherin, something Jo might've guessed even without knowing it just from all the fan-fiction he'd read. She seemed to get away with everything. Wayne could be either Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, but with a gun to his head Jo would place him in the latter, if only because he hadn't seen the boy confronted with any serious danger against which to contend. Sue would fit right at home in Hufflepuff too, but if Jo knew his _Harry Potter_ house quizzes online, he bet she'd be a Ravenclaw for the simple fact that she read at all.

Well. Maybe things in the Great Hall wouldn't go quite so smoothly after he did what he planned on doing there, but he was aware that even thinking that was likely giving himself too much credit. Changing things usually took longer than a single night, which was good, since his primary objective to change nothing at first was still top priority, even if his belief in its success was basically zero.

Either way, with the kids asleep, this was the first time Jo had gotten some level of solitude since getting his wand, so he decided it would be a perfect time to pull it out and see what he could do with it. He took it out of his pocket, examining it, fingers trailing the spiraling trail in a sort of trance. He could feel it hum in his hand, the same vague connection he'd felt at Ollivanders, like it was ready to cast at any moment. Holding his breath, he pointed it at one of the candy wrappers across the room, not knowing _what_ he would do, but sure he could do _something_. He swished the wand in the air, mouth opening, and then…

Wait. Hold on. Was he technically breaking his promise here?

The moment he thought that, his wand died. The hum was gone. He looked at it, brows raised, then frowned and went ahead anyway.

 _"Wingardium leviosa,"_ he whispered, swish and flicking just like he'd seen in the movies.

Nothing happened. Not the spell, nor any offshoot of it. He did it again.

 _"Wingardium leviosa."_

Blank. The damn wand blanked on him. Nada.

 _"Wingardium leviosa_ ," he said, growing annoyed.

It wasn't just that the spell wasn't working. He'd been fully prepared to fail. It was that he couldn't feel anything from his wand at all anymore. Every time he'd held it before, he could feel some trace of magic, like a hand holding his. Now, that was gone, and the wand felt like a useless stick of wood. It was somewhat worrying.

His promise with McGonagall had only been for him to avoid magic until six years had passed. Jo distinctly remembered it. But even as he rationalized this to himself, something nagged at him. It was the same feeling he got whenever he had procrastinated on homework or wasted too much money on something he knew he didn't need.

He sighed. After all, the _intent_ behind the promise had been to avoid magic while unsupervised. Six years had passed, but he was still there, in a room surrounded by children, not at all close to any authoritative figure in case he messed up. His word games might work on everyone else, but not on himself, and not on his wand either, it seemed. Jo looked down at his wand then, as it had once again begun to hum, if a little less than before.

"You're meant to keep me honest, is that it?" he asked it, scowling.

Being an inanimate object, it didn't respond. Jo projected a sort of smugness onto it regardless.

 _I should've stuck with the aspen one_ , he thought, but accepted the judgement, as irritating as it might be in the short term. _Fair enough. It's probably the right thing to do and all that._

The right thing to do. It was a simple enough thing in this case, he thought. Promises are promises. But he was heading into a pretty complex situation, and even if he'd been preparing for it all this time, he could admit to himself that he felt nervous. All he could do was hope that things didn't fly out of his control too quickly.

So fine, no magic. For now. Instead, Jo crossed his arms and closed his eyes, deciding that the others, while children, might've had something to teach him after all. If he was going to be stuck in an unnecessary train ride for well over seven hours, he'd be damned if he didn't at least get a nap out of it.

When he woke up, it was to the slowing of the train engine. Outside, he saw a giant of a man waving a lantern in the night. He couldn't hear it from inside, but he could imagine his call. _First-years here._ He stretched, watching the others in the compartment do the same, bleary-eyed and yawning. Other students were already getting off the train like ants crawling from a nest, and as he waked, their rabble became clearer in his ears.

The wait was over. A boat waited for him, and then a castle. Even now he could see it, silhouetted against the blue-tinted glow of the moon, covered in fog.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, and thank you to those who follow, favorite, or review.**


	4. Sorting and Smarts

**4\. Sorting and Smarts**

* * *

The boat ride was calm. Jo had always been one for naval adventures, even if he'd never had much of a chance to satisfy this appreciation. He decided to do so in the future. With magic, he'd likely have more than enough opportunity to satisfy any desire he had, no longer restricted by the societal structure he'd been entrenched in during his first life. It was a truly liberating prospect, one he'd thought on quite a lot over the years leading up to his enrollment into Hogwarts.

But well, anyway this part is really very boring, so I'll try to skim over it. The students muttered amongst themselves, all of them very excited and all that, the muggleborn ones in particular. Jo was equally amazed, though he managed to keep the awe to himself. Nothing quite did beat the real thing.

They landed alongside the castle, and Hagrid led them from the dock to the entrance where they were met by McGonagall. She didn't pay Jo much mind, which he'd expected. He was only one of many now. Not for very long, but for now.

McGonagall led them through the labyrinthine hallways which Jo quickly decided he would likely get lost in, explaining the house system and expressing her own expectations of their behavior. Ghosts began popping up, scaring some children and wowing others. Jo didn't give them his attention. He'd do that later.

They waited outside the Great Hall, surrounded by living portraits and stone walls, cast in a the homey orange light of candles. The students whispered to each other in wonder or trepidation, shuffling in place. Jo heard Harry and Ron having their brief confrontation with Draco somewhere ahead of him in the crowd, but he didn't pay it much mind; instead, he went over the script he'd created for himself. The moment was near. Any doubts he'd had were gone now, for the choice had been made and there was no use in him remaining uncertain. He'd do what he felt he needed to and deal with whatever consequences it caused later. This, at least, is what he told himself.

The large doors opened, and they were let in. The upperclassmen were all sitting at their tables already, cheering their entrance, arrayed in red, blue, yellow, and green. Jo walked with the crowd of first-years towards the head table, behind which sat Dumbledore and Sprout, Snape and Flitwick, all the professors.

Jo saw Quirrell, head wrapped in his distinctive turban. He sighed, and decided to ignore the man for now.

Dumbledore made his speech, the hat sang its song. Or maybe that happened later. I don't rightly know. The point is that the sorting was all set to happen now, and that's what this chapter is really all about so I'd like to get to that as soon as possible. Look, we all know what happens. We've all read the books. We've all watched the movies. Why else would you be reading this? Everyone knows what this looks like, and so getting into detail about it only serves to waste all of our time.

Students got called up, one by one. They were sorted with cries of "GRYFFINDOR" or "HUFFLEPUFF" or what have you, and everyone clapped away because that's teamwork alright. Finally, it was Jo's turn.

"Joseph Claymont!" McGonagall said.

Jo walked up the steps to her, smiling impishly at the professor and receiving a rather suspicious look in response. He sat on the chair and watched the crowded hall in front of him disappeared into darkness as the hat was placed over his head, the sound of their rabble disappearing as suddenly as his view of them did.

There was a deep, resonant silence. And then...

* * *

 **HAT** : I'm tempted to sort you into Slytherin right away.

 **JO** : And why's that?

 **HAT** : Because you're planning on manipulating me.

 **JO** : So you _can_ just read our minds...

 **HAT** : You don't even try to deny it! How peculiar...

 **JO** : Do I even have to say anything, then? You should already know how this'll all play out, if that's the case.

 **HAT** : Unfortunately for everyone waiting out there, my abilities don't extend so far. I have an impression, of course, but putting it all into detail becomes harder the more complicated it gets. Now, I can tell you have much to say, so by all means go right ahead.

 **JO** : Well, alright then. I guess I'll start by saying, and in doing so I don't mean any offense to you, that I don't think this whole business of sorting is very useful or even valid for that matter. I could go on about how determining a child's future in such an inflexible way is actively detrimental to both their education and overall personal development, but to prove that, I guess I'd have to start with explaining to you how the very process of determination is itself fundamentally flawed. And that all really starts with you.

 **HAT** : And how do you figure that?

 **JO** : You're just a subject, as individual and conscious as anyone else. This is clear in that here we are, sitting and having a conversation wherein you're learning more about me and I'm learning more about you. But even if this wasn't the case, even if you were some sort of disembodied consciousness, it wouldn't make your determinations about me any less subjective, because interpreting any amalgamation of facts, whether individually or collectively, is itself a subjective enterprise by its being an interpretation at all. Take this very conversation, for example. You could view it as an expression of my intellect, in that I'm taking the time to examine a system and point out its flaws in a well-reasoned and somewhat academic manner. If this is how you decide to view our discussion—and it _would_ be a decision on your part—then it can serve to justify your sorting me in Ravenclaw, the supposed home of knowledge and wit. But you can also take the very fact that this conversation is even happening as a show of courage, wherein I confront you, a figure of relative authority who will be determining a large part of my future in this institution, in an attempt to stand up against a process which I personally find unsatisfactory. From that lens, it would make just as much sense to place me in Gryffindor. Then there's also the possibility, one just as valid as the others, that I'm attempting to expose this ceremony as unjust out of a sense of moral duty, one informed by the value I place in my fellow classmates, whom I believe deserve better than to be rigidly sorted into a system which can't possibly account for all their particular complexities, a reading of my argument which would allow my entrance into Hufflepuff. And finally, just as you mentioned, I'm explaining all of this to you in an attempt to control our conversation so that it results in my desired outcome, a manipulative tactic which could easily earn me a place on Slytherin. As you can see, it's necessary to understand how any amount of material _content_ —this conversation, or myself as a whole being, or my fellow classmates—itself doesn't express any innate, true understanding, but is instead interpreted and justified on the basis of that interpretation's ability to satisfy the subjective observer. It's possible to justifiably place me in any of the four houses, something which is likely true of every single student who ever participates in the sorting process, because the sorting itself can't be anything but your subjective opinion about whatever amount of personal information you can get your hands on, and so the process itself is really quite arbitrary.

 **HAT** : Well, by that logic, any system which places individuals into particular categories is arbitrary by its very nature as a categorizing system. And yet we need categories with which to structure ourselves into any institution, because without them there is no institution at all. I agree with your reasoning that the house system is arbitrary, but that doesn't make it useless. Even you must recognize how effective the competition generated by our house system is in motivating students to succeed both academically and extracurricularily. Not to mention how it, by the distribution of points, encourages students to be on their best behavior, and thereby severely reduces undue bullying or mischief.

 **JO** : Don't get me wrong, I fully understand the need for houses at this school. You're right that the system is effective as both a competitive and disciplinary enterprise. Although I'm sure there's still plenty of sloth and misconduct, I'm doubly sure that no system at all could truly narrow the possibility for such things into nonexistence, and all things considered I find this one to be effective enough for what it is.

 **HAT** : Then what is your contention?

 **JO** : It's not the inherent need for houses that I argue against, but the way in which the system is applied. Let's think this through: Each house is defined by certain characteristics, ones which are supposedly seen or perhaps discovered deeply within each student who is sorted. Gryffindors are brave and reckless, Hufflepuffs fair and laborious, etc. I've already discussed how objectively judging a student as one or the other is technically impossible, but my true contention is that, in light of your necessary subjective judgement, the system therefore serves to hinder the student's characterological development. By assigning a student to a house, you effectively tell this student what kind of person he is from a position of perceived authority. This student will likely take your judgement as a fact, one which will go on to color his perception of himself and that of his classmates. So you see, the Gryffindors will not truly be brave and reckless; they will only believe themselves to be so, and that unfounded belief will be amplified by the perception of the students in other houses who, themselves under the illusion of their own accurate position, will see the Gryffindors as necessarily belonging to their house regardless of how illusory this judgement might be. This all leads to a situation in which students merely perform the expected characteristics of their house as opposed to sincerely act in accordance to their own nature. The student is effectively driven to hide the complexity of his true self under the simplifying mask of his house, a process made all the more psychologically damaging due to the fact that it begins at such a young age, when the effect of this illusion is more subtly integrated into his developing personality.

 **HAT** : But isn't it the case that all human beings inevitably create masks behind which to hide their true selves? And aren't these masks crafted in relation to their wider society, something which is by all accounts outside of the individual's control?

 **JO** : We speak here of the persona, a psychological term coined by one Carl Jung, who I'm sure you as a magical talking hat in a world of wizard people don't know, but who should be properly credited regardless. You're right that the persona is enshrined into one's personality one way or the other, as it's ultimately necessary to mask one's authentic 'self' in order to relate to other people. The 'self' is simply too complex, too contradictory, too differentiated to effectively build relations with another without some sort of funnel through which to communicate ideas and feelings. Even if our masks weren't crafted by ourselves, others would craft them for us, as their very perceptions of us would inevitably lead to our simplification in their eyes. Again, my contention here isn't the necessity for such a thing to exist, but merely the way it's applied in this instance. As it is now, this house system arbitrarily creates a student's persona when it should allow the student to create the persona for himself, using his own experience in the world as a foundation. The creation of one's persona, done in relation to society yet undertaken as an individual project, is crucial to one's psychological development. Taking that process away from a student and doing it for him isn't only unhealthy, but actively infantilizing, as it steals the self-development of that student under the pretense of efficiency. And anyway, house assignment also affects interpersonal relations in the student body. Say you're in Slytherin. You believe yourself to be ambitious and cunning, because that's what you've been told your place in that house represents. You also believe that all your housemates are ambitious and cunning too, at least more than they are anything else, and with that comes the equally unfounded belief that the students in other houses are not ambitious or cunning at all. You are therefore now in a situation wherein the people whom you're encouraged to spend the most time with are all allegedly like you, and the people whom you don't spend hardly any time with are definitively _unlike_ you. How could this possibly lead to something even remotely like unity between the houses? It jumps over mere competition and dives straight into tribal warfare. It's _your_ perceived authority, hat, which is the real problem. As a quasi-omniscient figure, one who can supposedly read into the inner truth of a person, you become someone who gains unquestioned ability to judge students, and thereby advocate for the students to judge themselves and others under your own arbitrary standards. They believe their house placement, as well as the house placement of everyone else, so completely that it becomes a fact as opposed to a mere suggestion.

 **HAT** : Hm… These points of yours are rather disturbing and in some ways incendiary, though I can't say they aren't well-reasoned. Very well, what do you then propose as a solution?

 **JO** : It's all very simple: cast off this perception of authority. Sort people randomly. _Openly_ randomly. It will be just as arbitrary as the current system is, but that arbitrariness will be made explicit rather than implicit, and therefore no student will truly believe himself as _belonging_ to any one house at the expense of some other house. Students will be able to freely interact with those of other houses without the perception of some intrinsic difference, and they will still be able to compete with each other due to the _name_ of their house rather than the _character_ of it. This accomplishes both goals at once; the student is allowed maximum freedom to craft his identity without the detriment of unnecessary preconceived notions from everyone else, and due to him still being placed in a house at all, he gains a core group in which to gain a sense of teamwork and community.

 **HAT** : Well… This has been enlightening, and I'm sure we could discuss this for quite a while longer, but I'm afraid we should cut this short for the sake of those outside who must by now be thoroughly incensed at the long wait. I will certainly think on all this.

 **JO** : Alright. Have you decided on a house for me, then?

 **HAT** : Oh yes, and I'm sure you've figured out which it is by now, else you wouldn't have gone through so much effort.

 **JO** : Of course. But if I may ask, what about me made the decision?

 **HAT** : Above all that you've said, and above how you said it, the most startling thing about it isn't your argument itself, but how much _fun_ you had making it. You enjoyed yourself quite a lot, by my estimation. Just out of curiosity, what was this 'desired outcome' of yours anyways?

 **JO** : Very simple. My one demand is this: _Not Gryffindor_.

 **HAT** : Ha! Well, nothing to be worried about then, as the only real option for you is—

* * *

"RAVENCLAW!"

There was applause, a bit more enthusiastic than usual. Jo figured he'd spend enough time with the hat to induce a fair amount of tension.

"I find that I'm not at all surprised at your delay, Mr. Claymont," McGonagall said, her face deadpan.

Jo smiled up at her, getting up from the chair. "You know me, prof," he said. "Can't help myself."

He walked through the first-years, parting the crowd of children, and walked straight to his new table, where he was met with pats and cheers and laughs. He made sure to sit as close to the head table as possible, to better view what would happen. Next to him, one of the Ravenclaw upperclassmen shook his shoulder.

"Kept us waiting there, kid!"

"I hope you all weren't too bothered," Jo said.

"Not at all! It was pretty suspenseful actually. I don't think I've seen someone take so long before." The student held out his hand. "Roger Davies, at your service."

"Joseph Claymont, but Jo's fine." They shook.

Jo watched the rest of the sorting in earnest. Vincent Crabbe and Tracey got placed in Slytherin, thankfully. He didn't recognize any of the other names, so he couldn't make sure of any changes he'd made. The possibility that the hat would sort a student in an entirely different house than from the books was higher than ever now, something which clawed at his nerves, but also something which he was determined not to feel guilty about.

There was a risk to everything, Jo had learned. If he made his presence in Hogwarts as minuscule as possible, there was a risk that he wouldn't be aware of whatever small changes he did make, small changes which could ripple out and grow into a sudden wave that would eventually catch him by surprise. If he made his presence _felt_ , and deliberately attempted to change some things, he risked interfering with the main plot and placing someone in danger, but at least he'd be well aware of what he'd done and what effects it had. Not affecting anything was impossible, regardless of how much he may try, so Jo had gone with the second option.

And the sorting ceremony _needed_ to change. This Jo knew by taking the long view of things. He couldn't begin to count the number of problems he would be able to avoid if Slytherin in particular wasn't a house that was actively encouraged by the school's culture to be evil. Umbridge would have a harder time getting her inquisitors, if she ended up as a professor despite his best attempts at keeping her out. Draco might not be so willing to follow along with his father's plots if he weren't constantly surrounded by manipulative yes-men. Most importantly, not quite so many graduates would join the ranks of Death Eaters, something which hadn't been explicitly stated by canon but which Jo couldn't imagine didn't happen. Taking the really long view, he could see how the sorting ceremony as it now stood was bad for wizarding society in general; if this was to be the only magic school in all of Britain, it better give the children who enrolled in it the best possible chance to mature and grow into responsible adults. He'd have liked to talk things out with the hat at a later point, after Harry, Ron, Hermione, and all the rest had been safely put into Gryffindor, but Jo didn't think he'd get many chances to do so after this, so he took the risk knowing full well that his policy of minimal contact might get shot.

As Hermione, his true test, finally got called up, all Jo could hope was that he could have it both ways.

"RAVENCLAW!"

… And there went that. Well, we tried, team.

"Daphne Greengrass! RAVENCLAW!"

"Gregory Goyle! GRYFFINDOR!"

"Seamus Finnigan! RAVENCLAW!"

"Justin Finch-Fletchley! SLYTHERIN!"

"Neville Longbottom! HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Ernest MacMillan! SLYTHERIN!"

"Draco Malfoy! HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Pansy Parkinson! HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Padma Patil! GRYFFINDOR!"

"Parvati Patil! RAVENCLAW!"

And those were just the ones Jo recognized. God knew where everyone else was supposed to be.

Jo palmed his face. He didn't join in for the applause that followed every announcement. Eventually, they all blended together anyway.

"Harry Potter! GRYFFINDOR!"

"Ron Weasley! GRYFFINDOR!"

Like that mattered anymore. Without Hermione, those two were screwed. Even _with_ Hermione, everyone else's sorting was too important a change to overlook. Jo looked up at the sorting hat, glaring into its wrinkled face. He could swear the thing was smirking down at him.

A hand set on his shoulder. "Doing alright there?" Roger said. "You don't look so good."

Jo looked at the other boy, and saw something of real worry. "This is gonna be rather difficult, isn't it?"

Roger's face screwed itself into confusion, then a bemused grin. "Oh don't worry about all that, mate. Hogwarts isn't all that, especially for a couple Ravenclaws like us. We're the smart ones, you know."

Although the irony of that statement hit Jo all the harder, he appreciated the sentiment.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **I thought long and hard on this chapter, but eventually decided to bite the bullet. Jo and I will be moving into new and unmapped territory together, it seems.**

 **I'm incredibly thankful at the attention that this story has received. 100+ follows after only three chapters is amazing, really. Please keep supporting me if the story keeps being to your liking.**


	5. Riddles and Categories

**5\. Riddles and Categories**

* * *

As their prefect—a young man named Robert Hilliard—led the first-year Ravenclaws through the twisting hallways and up to their common room, Jo brooded on what he would do next. More accurately, he brooded on a single, all-consuming question.

 _Why shouldn't I just tell Dumbledore?_

Jo dreaded this question. It was one he'd been hoping to avoid entirely by following his primary objective of non-involvement, but now that this objective had been made totally unviable, it was a question he couldn't afford to leave unanswered.

Theoretically, telling Dumbledore would be for the best. He'd know right away that Voldemort was in the school if he didn't already, and more importantly he'd know where to find all the horcruxes. If things went smoothly, he might even be able to destroy them all by the end of the first year if not sooner.

 _But can I know that things'll go smoothly?_ Jo thought. _Aren't there an infinite amount of ways that things might turn out all the worse? And who's to say that Dumbledore would even believe me? A kid who's actually a grown man from another reality? Even in a world of magic, it's a lot to swallow._

Yet Jo knew that wasn't the point. He could excuse any instinct to non-action on his inability to know the future. Anyone can. But people must act regardless of their limited knowledge, else everyone would die on account of being too scared to eat for fear of choking.

Plus, this was really all about responsibility, wasn't it? Jo knew for a fact that he lived in this world and that Voldemort was active. Even if this wasn't the canon reality and all his information was therefore invalid, there was at least the possibility that what he knew could be crucial to avoiding an otherwise tragic string of events, and that should be more than enough reason for him to try and convince Dumbledore of his sincerity.

 _If it's all about responsibility, then isn't my instinct to tell Dumbledore really just a roundabout way to avoid my own part in changing the timeline? If it weren't for me, Harry and the others would be fine in what I know to be a relatively secure narrative. I didn't need to chat up the sorting hat like I did, and while it wasn't necessarily a mistake, it was definitely a decision I made. Really, taking responsibility would mean going through the effort of dealing with the result of my own choices, not just shoving them into someone else's hands._

Even as he thought this, Jo knew that there was an element of vanity in it. His own heart told him that a part of him, and not an insignificant part, wanted to be a sort of hero. Frankly speaking, telling Dumbledore would mean that he wouldn't get the glory involved with defeating Voldemort, and perhaps more disturbingly, he wouldn't get to experience the adventure of it all. It made a horrific sort of sense: having spent most of his life reading stories of adventure and mystery and tension, and being a human being besides, this was a chance to live out the next few years in the same excitement he'd so often daydreamed of.

 _That's true,_ Jo thought. _I can admit that to myself if no one else._ _But even so, that itself could be an argument another part of me is making to avoid responsibility. There are lives on the line here, real lives, and maybe I don't think I'm ready to handle that kind of weight. And maybe I really can't, but shouldn't I at least try?_

A part of him wanted to be a hero, but another part of him wanted to run away. Which was honest, and which was just a trick? He'd have liked to be honest with himself, but he found that he didn't know how. It was possibly the single most difficult choice he'd ever been presented with.

To his frustration, his wand wasn't being very helpful in helping him pick between the two. It merely sat in silence within his pocket, humming eternally, apparently as undetermined as he was.

 _It can wait, then,_ Jo thought grimly. _I do have some time to think, I guess, so I shouldn't get too carried away. First thing's first…_

What kind of person was Jo to be in Hogwarts? In other words, what kind of character would he be in the story? One eventually realizes that these two things are in fact the same, but the distinction here serves to illustrate the point.

Jo had thought about how he should present himself over his six years of preparation, and had ultimately made the reflexively obvious conclusion that it would be best to do things as he had all along. That is, be himself. Just as there was no need to hide his rather apparent maturity in comparison to his supposed peers before he was in Hogwarts, there was no need to do so once in it. And, all things considered, he probably had enough to worry about without needing to pretend.

"And here we are," Robert said.

They all stood in front of a wide wooden double-door without handles. In their stead was a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. The other first-years shuffled a bit when Robert turned to see them, and even Jo wondered why the older student hadn't tried opening the door for them before he remembered the Ravenclaw common room's particular quirk.

"As you might have realized, this door can't be turned open," Robert said. "The only way to get in, you see, is to knock and answer the riddle that our good mate Rooster asks you. Would anyone like to try?"

Hermione's hand came up at once, Jo noticed. There were a few others too, more hesitant. Jo himself wasn't particularly fond of riddles, but he decided to raise his hand too if only for curiosity's sake.

Robert looked over all the hands, and after a moment's deliberation, picked Jo. He did this because I decided, having considered all the options, that it makes things more interesting. For Robert, the reason was a bit simpler.

"You there," he said, finger curling. "Let's see what we all had to wait so long for."

Jo stepped forward to a smattering of laughter, one which he joined. "I'm tired, so the thing better go easy on me," he said, chuckling.

"Oh, he's a soft old bird," Robert said, and he banged the eagle knocker three times, a sound that echoed through the hall and quieted everyone.

A shrill voice struggled out of the bronze beak. _"The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?"_

Jo had heard this one before, but just for fun, he decided to see how this whole riddle system worked. "Easy," he said. "The answer is _food_."

The door opened. Robert blinked, as did Jo, both equally surprised.

"Oh," Jo said. "Well, alright then. Cool."

"That's… strange," Robert said. "The answer to that one is _footsteps_."

The first-years began muttering, and one voice among them asked, "Why would the answer be _food_ of all things?"

Jo turned around to see Hermione frowning at him, not in anger but in apparent bewilderment. He grinned. "Think about it. Any food you take, well, you'll _leave it behind_ sooner or later."

The kids laughed again, and even Robert had to crack a grin. Hermione's ears went red, her frown deepening.

"First of all, _gross_. Second, that's not fair. You can't just… force the answer like that, can you?"

"The door would disagree," Jo said.

"I can see that, but that makes it even _more_ confusing."

Jo's eyes roved her face. The girl seemed genuinely curious more than anything. With what he knew from the books, he'd have thought her jealous of his apparent show of intellect if it weren't for how she was trying to question rather than belittle him. It was another reminder that, things being as they where, it would be best to work under the assumption that his information was faulty at best. It might be a little unfair considering the difference in age, but Jo figured he may as well prove a point.

"Alright," he said, "I'll show you how. Give me a riddle. I bet you I can solve any you know."

His challenge posed, the others quieted down. Robert stood back, seemingly content to see where this went. In the common room, Jo saw a few older students looking at them curiously, probably wondering why the first-years hadn't come in yet.

Hermione thought, a hand on her chin, the flush on her face fading. "What has many keys but can't open a single door?" she asked.

This was one Jo hadn't heard before, but it didn't matter. After a moment's thought, he smiled. "An armless janitor."

Some laughed, and Hermione crossed her arms. "Wrong. The answer is a _piano_."

"Sure, that sounds good too," Jo said. "But really, I don't see why I'm wrong."

She huffed. "It wasn't the right answer."

"Janitors have a lot of keys, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"And an armless one couldn't exactly open a door, could he?"

"… I suppose not, but what's your point?"

"Well, an armless janitor solves the riddle then. He has many keys but can't open a single door."

Hermione was quiet, considering, then she frowned. "That's cheating."

"Cheating's just another word for creative in this case."

"Fine, whatever," Hermione said. "How about this: What has a tongue but cannot talk and gets around but cannot walk?"

"A shark."

"Oh, come _on_." A tinge of frustration was starting to well into her voice.

"What? Sharks have tongues, can't talk, and it's not like they have any feet for walking."

Another round of laughter. Hermine huffed once more. "What connects two people but touches only one?"

This one was a bit harder to finagle, but Jo thought of something that the others might like. "A curse. The magical kind, I mean."

"I… Urgh, fine. Last one. Thirty white horses on a red hill. First they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still. What are they?"

Jo had read Tolkien, and he'd be shocked if Hermione hadn't gotten this one from there. He supposed she didn't know whether he was muggleborn, and even if he were, _The Hobbit_ wasn't quite the classic now as it would be in his own time. Either way, he knew exactly what answer she was looking for, which is why he gave her exactly the one she wouldn't accept.

"They're thirty white horses on a red hill," he said, deadpan. "Rather unlikely if you ask me, but there you have it."

"That's just not right!" Hermione said. "Not right at all!"

"Sure it is. It's a pretty easy one too. I mean, you gave me the answer before any of the clues."

"You're messing around. You can't be serious."

"Of course I'm not serious. This is really funny to me. But still, you can't say I'm wrong."

"Sure I can! None of your answers were anywhere near correct!"

Jo looked at Hermione, her hair frazzled all the more from apparent frustration, and shrugged.

"If you say something that _could_ fit the question, I don't know why that wouldn't be just as good an answer. The only reason it'd be wrong is because _you_ don't want it to be right, not because it isn't right all by itself."

Hermione looked like she'd keep arguing, but at that moment Robert walked in between them, blocking her from view.

"Alright, you two," he said, exasperated. "While I'm sure you're both having a great old time, I think we all want to go to bed sooner or later."

Most of the kids groaned in agreement. Jo smiled and, noting that Hermione was still ready to continue, slipped under Robert's arm and through the doorway. He heard her follow him in. Her footsteps, charged and sharp against the marble of the hall, turned to quick and muffled thumps as they stepped into the carpeted interior. The other kids followed, and Jo heard as their rabble molded into the room's, mixing with the ambient chatter of the upperclassmen.

Soon enough, she was next to him.

"Look, I know what you're doing," Hermione said, chin dipped high, "It's categories. The answer just has to fit enough to convince me. I get it, but I won't agree with it! There's no point telling riddles without following the rules!"

Jo laughed. "Well _you're_ no fun."

Whatever response she had to that was drowned out by Robert once again, this time explaining the common room's layout, where their rooms were, the bathrooms, the study area, the couches. Jo was most interested in the Ravenclaw library, a magnificent array of books, towers upon towers of them, filling up a good third of the common room's floor space in rows and walkways, mostly made up of contributions from graduating students.

As he listened, Jo thought also of the following day. Classes would start. He guessed he'd talk to students, and some professors too. Maybe even Dumbledore…

Should he tell? A part of him knew, even as he tried to reason himself out of knowing it, that he thought telling Dumbledore would only be ruining the fun. In his pocket, he felt the wand hum silently. It felt warm, and although he couldn't say for sure, he thought that it might've been glowing.

"Damn," he said, sighing.

Hermione glanced at him, eyes narrowed. "What is it now?" she whispered, facing Robert like the others.

He shook his head. "No big deal," he said, low. "Just… Well, you have a point. I guess it's not always about the fun."

* * *

 **AN: I keep seeing the attention this is getting and it keeps shocking me. Thank you all again, and please keep supporting the story so that I know people are reading it.**


	6. Plans and Surprises

**6\. Plans and Surprises**

* * *

First thing's first.

Jo sat in the common room, on a couch in front of the fireplace. Shadows flickered on his face, and on the wand he held before him, its spiraling groove darkening further onto its black wood, like a spiraling hole. He glowered down at it.

"You can't talk, right?"

The wand didn't respond. Obviously. It's a stick of wood.

"I guess I just had to make sure," he muttered, now to himself. He closed his eyes, leaning forward on his knees, and began to think.

 _Change who you are, but don't change who you could be._ That's what Ollivander had said. Judging by how his wand had acted so far—on the train, just before bedtime—Jo didn't have the game theory down yet, but he could make a guess.

It had never _changed_ his mind. It had never made a decision _for_ him. On the train, it had only stopped working when _he_ doubted his own choice first, or rather, when he decided it would be wrong to use it. It hummed whenever he made a choice and decided to stick to it. Annoying, but Jo figured he could only blame himself for that.

"A real hard case, aren't you?" he said, again to himself. "A real Jiminy Cricket."

The wand didn't do anything. It didn't glow, or hum, or respond whatsoever. It's just a stick of wood.

* * *

Jo woke up early, before anyone else. He hadn't slept all that much, and his tolerance for short nights had actually decreased to a dangerously low point after having used the past eleven years to fix his circadian rhythm, but this was important. Before classes, even before breakfast, he had to find out if he could actually make his plan work.

Dumbledore wouldn't believe him if he just walked in and told the guy he was from another dimension, or whatever it was. He needed to build trust first so that he wouldn't just be waved away as some crazy kid and they could actually start solving this whole mess. The easiest, simplest, and fastest way to do this was to get someone else to believe him first, someone Dumbledore trusted already, someone who was taken seriously by pretty much everyone in the castle as it was.

So Jo headed to McGonagall's office first thing in the morning. Luckily, it was on the same floor as the entrance to Ravenclaw tower, which meant he didn't need to bother with the changing staircases on his own just yet.

Either way, he figured he should at least feel things out with Dumbledore before doing anything drastic—although he seriously doubted that the old wizard could turn out to be some secretly evil megalomaniac like _some people_ seem to believe without question, he figured there was always a slight possibility. A _very low_ possibility, but a possibility nonetheless.

But McGonagall was a good egg, he knew. So he'd start with her.

And of course Jo would do this. Any reasonable person would ask for help. This entire situation is completely ridiculous. Here you have a young man, 21 when he was reborn into this world, living out the _Harry Potter_ plot of all things. 21 years old. He didn't even get to experience living on his own, paying rent, dealing with the mundane troubles of life. There's no way he would have a handle on all this, as in control as he might act.

I mean, wouldn't you do the same? Could anyone honestly say they wouldn't immediately ask for help from some authority figure when there are lives on the line? Doing otherwise would only be a vanity project.

What I _wish_ would happen isn't what I _believe_ would happen. I wish Jo could be confident enough, powerful enough, certainly _arrogant_ enough, to think he could do all this on his own. That'd be a great time, personally. _I'd_ sure feel empowered. But I know Jo, and he's simply not that kind of guy. And anyway, it's not like I have any control over what happens. I'm writing it all down, but that doesn't give me any say. I'm a fly on the wall. A ghost. These people—characters? Is there any difference? —are all acting on their own. One false word would give me away, so I'd rather not type it. We're sticking to the truth here, thank you very much.

After many twists and turns, and helped along by some of the friendlier portraits, Jo finally reached McGonagall's office. He knocked, and she opened the door as crisply and dourly as he expected.

"Mr. Claymont," she said. "While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I'm sure even you must admit it's a bit too early for whatever it is you're here for."

Jo stepped past her into the office. "I'll work hard to convince you otherwise," he said.

The space was small and cozy. Two cushy couches sat in front of a large, smoldering fireplace. Filled bookshelves circled the room like a leather-bound shell.

Jo walked straight towards a couch and sat down. He turned back to look at McGonagall, who stood flabbergasted by the still open door.

"Well, take a seat, then," he said. "You'll probably need to for this."

McGonagall's lips thinned. She walked over. "I suppose I can excuse your bad manners for just a while, if this is really that important."

When she sat down, Jo began. Very frankly, he told her that he was from an alternate reality wherein Hogwarts and the whole Wizarding World was merely the setting to an extraordinarily popular children's book series. He told her that he had been 21 years old when he was reborn into this world, and was now 32 counting by mental years, though he couldn't honestly put much stock in that when it came to personal maturity. He told her how the books followed Harry Potter's seven years of magical education, that he knew McGonagall had left the 'Boy Who Lived' at his Aunt Petunia's, a muggle living with her family in London.

This is when McGonagall conjured some tea. She filled a small cup with it and began sipping in silence, face blank.

Jo continued. He told her that Voldemort was still alive. He told her how the dark wizard had survived thanks to his horcruxes, of which there were seven, one of them inside the castle itself. He told her how Voldemort was likely currently inside the castle as well, hiding inside Professor Quirrell's turban. He told her that it was her choice to believe him or not, but he could prove his story true if she let him, and giving her support to it when he presented it to Dumbledore might save them all a giant headache later down the road.

He stopped. That seemed like enough for now. Jo sat and waited for McGonagall's response.

It took five minutes. Jo sat patiently, eyes eventually traveling to the fireplace. McGonagall sipped her tea. Eventually, her cup ran out, and at this point she put it down on the small table nearby. She put her hands down on her lap.

"Well, I have to say that this is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," she said.

Jo sagged. "Yeah, tell me about it." He crossed his arms, looking at her. "So, you believe me or what?"

"I can't rightly say at the moment," McGonagall said. "Although what you say is impossible, it should also be impossible that you'd know Mr. Potter's muggle family, much less my involvement in leaving him with them."

"You were right, by the way," Jo said. "They aren't the kindest of people, to say the least. He's living in a cupboard under the stairs. It's all fairly abusive, you know."

McGonagall frowned. "Yes, I got that impression from our groundskeeper…"

"Hagrid."

"Hagrid, of course." She scowled at him, and Jo could only shrug, smiling. "Unfortunately, these Dursleys are Mr. Potter's only remaining family—"

"Only remaining _available_ family—"

"And as such there's nothing we can do. Legally speaking, that is." Her frown deepened. "Magical laws, muggle laws… These things apply to me as much as they do to anyone."

Jo heaved a sigh. Frankly, he didn't know how to handle something like this at the moment, so he let it go for now. Harry'd be fine for the foreseeable future at least. The Dursleys were bad, but they weren't quite 'literally torture for sadistic pleasure' bad, and from what he remembered Harry would be getting a lucky break with their fear of his retaliation by magic. On to other things.

"Anyway, the main problem is Voldemort," he said. At her flat look, he buried the sigh that threatened to pop through. "Look, I get it's hard to believe, but you have to admit I know some things that I shouldn't rationally be able to know, right?"

"That's true, at least."

"And some of those things I shouldn't be able to know imply some pretty dangerous things, right?"

"Yes…"

"So if I'm right about all this, even if there's only a _really small chance_ , you should probably look into it, right?"

"I…" McGonagall put a hand on her face, rather tiredly so. "… Yes… I would've rather you left this until after breakfast, Mr. Claymont."

"You're not the only one, believe me," Jo said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Well either way, all I need from you is the promise that you'll take me seriously if I show you that this isn't all just a bunch of nonsense." Seeing her eyes narrow, he smiled. "I mean I can prove it to you."

"And how would you do that, exactly?"

"Isn't it obvious? Voldemort is currently hiding on the back of Quirrell's head, so all I have to do is show you what that looks like." He grimaced. "I'll warn you now, it won't be pretty."

McGonagall huffed, pouring herself more tea, her shoulders finally slackened. "I'm not sure I should allow a student to harass one of our professors."

"Oh, come on. I won't go too far. I think I've earned that much trust, at least."

"As much as it pains me to admit, I think so too." McGonagall stood up, and Jo followed. She walked him to the door. "There are some things I need to think on, Mr. Claymont. I'll simply ask that you don't cause too much trouble, as much as I question the utility of that request."

"Believe me, prof, I'll be the least of your worries."

"If what you're saying is true, I don't doubt it."

* * *

Charms was Jo's first class. Him and the rest of the first-year Ravenclaws were thankfully led to Flitwick's class by Robert again, as, according to him and everyone else, the castle was confusing enough to trap the stray newbie in a seemingly-endless labyrinth for days if they weren't careful. Jo's own impression of the castle as a strange, Kafkaesque nightmare of changing stairs and horribly interchangeable corridors only strengthened once he got to tour it in person. He got lost almost immediately upon walking down a flight mid-motion. The constant rabble of portraits and the equally-constant current of ghosts floating from one wall to the other didn't help.

Most annoyingly, perhaps, was Hermione, who seemed to have made it her mission to stick to his side from dawn to dusk, always chattering in his ear, a syllable for every step. She'd been doing it since the moment he stepped into the Great Hall for breakfast, and Jo got the feeling she wouldn't stop even if he asked. Which he did, of course, as you need to make sure of these sorts of things.

"Look," he said, reminding himself that she was, perhaps, too young to understand how irritated he was getting under the mask of cool collection he'd learned to assume through the years, "I appreciate the company, but I'd really rather you give me some quiet here."

He turned away, looking forward as they walked. Their classmates chatted amongst themselves around them, with Roger taking the time to stop by a particularly interesting landmark to give them a short summary. Every once in a while he'd get called out by a passing friend, and he'd of course return the jibe with his own before moving on, unflustered. It was the sort of thing you'd want in a tour guide, Jo thought, remembering his own experiences with it. He'd not done quite so well himself.

Hermione, as one might expect, didn't take his statement at face value. "Are you calling me annoying?" she said, frowning, mouth open in a silent gasp.

Jo sighed. "No, I'm not calling you annoying. I'm only saying that you are, in this particular moment, doing something that I find annoying. There's a difference."

"Well, _you_ were doing something that _I_ found annoying just yesterday, so there," Hermione dipped her chin up, eyes closed. "Fair's fair, after all."

Jo didn't turn to see her. "Yeah, you sure beat me."

"I did."

"I'll just take it in silence, then."

"I'd hope so."

"We can both bask in the glow of your victory."

"Let's."

They basked silently. Or, Hermione did. Jo just kept walking along, head rumbling with incoherent impressions and half-articulated thoughts about the future. It went on for a good while, at least until they reached the room. The class, at Roger's instruction and goodbye, piled in and began taking their seats under Professor Flitwick's pleasant gaze.

The room was set up just as Jo remembered from the movies—how convenient for me, isn't it? Well anyway, you all know the deal with that. Two rows at the sides, one long hallway in the middle that led to windows half-covered with roughly stacked books. Flitwick himself stood by these books, beard consuming his face, shorter than all of them.

When they sat, Hermione's frown snapped toward him again. "Wait a minute—"

Flitwick tapped his wand against the stack of books. They began to float in lazy circles above them, eliciting a collective whoa, before restacking themselves in a staircase, one he climbed up even as it constructed itself. He turned to his audience and held his arms out like a gymnast after a trick.

"Welcome to Charms, then! I am Professor Flitwick, and I do hope to see you all pulling your own wonders quite soon!"

The class applauded, Jo joining in even as his own expression remained perplexed in thought.

"You tricked me!" Hermione whispered, head bent down towards him. "I swear, I can't tell if you're a genius or just stupid enough to get away with anything."

"I can't tell either," Jo muttered. His eyes remained on Flitwick, who continued with his introductory lecture.

"And you don't seem at all amazed by any of this! What's that about, then? Seen it all before? I thought you were a muggleborn like me. That's what you said at breakfast."

"I'm a muggleborn alright."

"Not a very convincing one."

"I've seen some interesting things before."

"More interesting than _Hogwarts_?"

"I'm sorry, is something the matter over there?" Flitwick said, looking over at the two with a raised brow.

Hermione reddened immediately, the color coming up like a fire from her neck and devouring the whole of her face. Jo merely bowed his head.

"No, professor," he said, calm. "We're sorry."

"I only ask out of curiosity," Flitwick said, smiling. Jo got the impression that the man would've responded much the same way even if he hadn't apologized for them. "Now, onto our first lesson! Are you all ready to learn some magic?"

The class responded in a single, ecstatic 'YES.'

"Good! So let's learn one of a wizards most rudimentary skills: levitation, or the ability to make objects fly." Here, Flitwick pulled out the wand hidden in his robes. It was done with a quick flick of his hand, coming up from his generous sleeve.

Jo blinked, thinking it itself an impressive magic trick in the muggle sense.

Flitwick swished his wand in the air and, from nothing at all, a single white feather appeared before every student. This elicited another round of whoa's.

"What you'll all want to do is hold your wand, hopefully not pointing it at yourself," the professor paused for the small bout of chuckling that followed, "perform this motion: swish and flick. All of you repeat after me, and say it aloud. Swish and flick."

The class followed his example, swishing and flicking their wands several times, the repetition turning into a sort of song by the time Flitwick called for silence. Jo got bored after the first time, and kept doing it only for appearance's sake. He figured that Flitwick would've gone into more detail if there were something more to it, but in general the motion seemed a sort of signature: always similar in shape but not necessarily identical to pass off as authentic.

"Now, as you perform the swish-and-flick, point the wand at your feather and say the incantation, the magic words: _Wingardium Leviosa_. Say it with me: Win-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa. Just like that. Don't worry if the feather doesn't rise right away; it usually takes a few tries."

The class said the incantation, swishing and flicking their wands at the feather. No one seemed to get it right away, though a few did manage to get their feathers to fidget up a bit, which inspired some widened eyes and re-energized attempts. Hermione turned out to be one of those, though she seemed too rattled to truly focus. Jo watched them, not having made a single attempt.

He didn't see what their problem was. There had been no more instructions; no extrapolations on wand-movement, no particular twitch during the flicking that they had to get right, no emphasis placed on picturing the spell in one's mind. Just swish and flick, and a two-word incantation. And yet no one seemed able to do it. What about magic was really so difficult?

Jo looked down at his own feather, then looked at his wand, then back at the feather. He swished and flicked, said the incantation, _"Wingardium Leviosa,"_ and pointed.

The feather shot right up into the air. It hovered there, bobbing up and down. Everyone quieted to stare, coming to a slow stop. Jo stared himself, gob smacked for the first time upon coming to Hogwarts.

"Hm," he said. "Hm. Well… Okay then."

Hermione, shocked along with the rest, seemed to have to remind herself to be angry with him. It didn't seem to work, as she was still gawking by the time she spoke. "That's not—"

She was drowned out by yet another collective whoa, one Jo, for once, joined, even if only in silence.

* * *

 **AN: This last moment will get explained in the next chapter.**

 **Until then, I have an update that I think you should all know about. A reviewer brought the matter of Draco to my attention, and it was only then that I realized I'd forgotten to sort him in chapter four. That's right: I'm as fallible as anyone else. That, or Draco's just that forgettable. For the sake of his fans, I'll stick to the former, though I do hope you all see I find myself hilarious. That said, I went back and added him in, since I suppose it _is_ rather important.**

 **For those who won't get the chance to (or perhaps won't want to) go back and see, know that I've sorted Draco Malfoy into HUFFLEPUFF. It's a house that really gets the short end of the stick, though he likely won't see it that way.**

 **Thank you all again for the incredible support, and please keep favoriting, following, and especially reviewing my story.**


	7. Theory and Assumption

**7\. Theory and Assumption**

* * *

After his first day of classes, Jo once again found himself at McGonagall's office. She let him in without issue, merely glancing down at him before walking back inside, the door left open. Not even a greeting.

"I'm only here as a student this time," Jo said, closing the door behind him. "Promise."

McGonagall hummed. "Then why don't you take a seat here," she said, patting a cushioned seat by the corner. In front of it sat her desk, a dark wooden one, neat and tidy with an unopened bottle of ink standing alongside an orderly row of quills. Behind it stood a metal file cabinet, the first relatively modern thing Jo had seen in the castle.

"That stands out a bit," Jo said, sitting down.

McGonagall sighed as she sat along with him. "Yes, well, it comes in handy. Not all of us wizards are as quaint as you seem to think."

The two stared at each other in silence, both masked in indifference.

"I don't think you're all quaint," Jo said.

"Oh, come now," McGonagall said, for once allowing herself the smallest quirk of the lips. "Don't lie, Mr. Claymont. It's not your usual fashion."

Jo scowled, leaning forward on his knees. "Reading my mind, are you?"

It was a subtle signal, yet another implication of unwarranted knowledge on his part, one McGonagall was more than clever enough to discern. Either way, she let it pass. "It's hard not to notice, with the way you talk. Comes off a bit patronizing."

"Well… You all still use birds to send letters. What's up with that? I mean, couldn't you just teleport them to each other? I feel like there's an easier way to go about it, with magic and all."

"Patronizing," McGonagall said, head shaking. "At least you're upfront about it now."

Jo grumbled, but inside he was rather relieved. He'd been scared that the morning's events would sour their relationship, what little there was of it, but it seemed that McGonagall was the type to take things calmly as they came.

"Look, I was being honest before. I'm here to ask about magic, student to teacher."

McGonagall put her hands on the desk, one on top of the other. Her smile, along with its brief implication of levity was gone. She was all business now.

"What seems to be the problem, then?"

"It's… not exactly a _problem_ ," Jo said. Seeing her unperturbed expression, Jo took his wand out of his pocket. "Alright, check it out. Ravenclaws get transfiguration tomorrow, and you're giving us the matchstick thing, right? We have to turn it into a needle."

"After some preliminary lecturing, yes, that's right." Seeing his sly look, McGonagall rolled her eyes. "Oh, bother. So you know the lesson. Any older student could've told you, or even one in your year who's taken the class today."

Jo sighed. "Fine, let's pretend you actually believe that. Anyway, you have one of those matches right now?"

McGonagall looked at him silently for a second, then reached for her own wand lying on the desk. She pointed it directly up at the ceiling. " _Accio_ , matchstick."

A matchstick came flying from behind Jo, slicing past his ear, landing solidly in McGonagall's waiting palm. She rested it on the desk.

"What's the spell for it?" Jo asked.

"You'll find out tomorrow."

"Just… humor me here."

McGonagall stared at him again, gravely. _"Compositus Verto,"_ she said. "Point your wand at it. Picture the needle in your mind."

Jo pointed his wand at the match. "You had me at _Compositus Verto_."

And just like that, the matchstick turned into a needle. Wood morphed into metal, sharpened to a glinting tip.

The two looked down at it, neither seeming all that surprised.

"See, here's my problem," Jo said. "I'm looking around at all these kids, and they can't get the hang of it. This is gonna sound pretentious as hell, but I don't see what the big deal is with all this magic stuff. You just wave your wand around and say the magic words, right? What's so hard about it? I mean…" he swished and flicked, pointing again to the needle, but now he remained voiceless. Still, the needle rose. It came to levitate between them. "You don't even _need_ to say the words." He held up his wand, scrutinizing its dark, gleaming surface. "Do we even need _these_ things? What's the big deal about magic anyway? Where does it come from?"

Halfway through his ramble, McGonagall pulled out a scroll from under her desk. As he finished, she began pouring out the ink bottle onto the swell by the corner of her desk. The quill began to write on its own, scribbling furiously, and Jo waited.

"Mr. Claymont, would you kindly stand and get me the tome on the bookshelf to your right?" she said, writing.

Jo looked at the bookshelf, finding a wall of titles in leather.

"It's called _The Pettigrew Anthology of Magic Theory_. Fourth row up."

He turned back to her, the name catching him off guard only for a second. Jo figured the family itself couldn't have been all bad, after all, and the book looked old. "Could you just summon it over?"

"Just humor me."

Jo huffed. "Fair," he said, standing. He walked two paces to the bookshelf and found it rather quickly. It wasn't the thickest book McGonagall had, but it was thick enough for him to need both arms to carry it over to her desk and plop it down with a heavy thud. Jo sat back down, watching her write. "What's all this, then?"

"Magic is rather hard to define, Mr. Claymont," McGonagall said, eyes on her scroll. "First we must divide the magic from the spell, as the two aren't necessarily one and the same. A spell, an incantation, a rune; these things only signal the magic, much like words only signal their meaning. Do you follow?"

Jo leaned back, head resting on one arm against the arm of his chair. "I've read Augustine, professor."

"Oh, it's much like his signification theory, though I think we can both agree that magic complicates matters." Seeing Jo's eyebrow raise, she chuckled. "You're not the only one who reads, . I've been alive for quite a while, you know. Plenty of time to dive into the classics."

Jo hummed. "He ever involve himself in magic, or was he a muggle?"

"Unclear, of course. It was a while ago, though we've yet to find any writings of his that adequately imply magic. Religion, you see, is a different matter." McGonagall grabbed the heavy book, turning it around and heaving its pages open, perusing through them. "And anyway, this distinction about wizards and muggles is another false dichotomy, I'm afraid. What would you define a spell as, Mr. Claymont?"

"… I don't think it'll meet your standards."

"Bah, where did all the confidence go? Give it your best shot."

Jo thought, hand rubbing his chin. He spoke slowly, the words coming out in sputters. "I'd say… Spells are those things that signal the magic, as you said. They… Well, I guess they're like passwords. They give the caster access to a particular effect on the world."

"Good enough. And what, then, is the difference between me pointing my wand up to summon this book to me myself and getting you to do it?"

Jo opened his mouth, then closed it again. He frowned. "… Keep talking."

"Well, based on your definition, me asking you for the book as a favor is a spell just like any other. I say the words, and the effect I desire occurs."

"Well, if we're gonna be that abstract about it…"

"Then specify, if you would."

Jo thought again. He thought for a good amount of time, all the while listening to the scratch of McGonagall's quill against parchment. "Hrm… I guess they're the same, but spells use magic instead. Though that's not very satisfying…"

"And so we're back to the question. In your words, _what's the big deal about magic anyway?_ The most gifted wizards and witches of history have tackled it and have as of yet come out empty in the definitive sense." McGonagall slammed the book closed, the sound pounding across the room. She slid it towards him, along with her parchment, which she placed atop it. "I suppose Charms and Transfiguration won't do you very good as you are. It'd be rather boring for you, wouldn't it?" She waited for his hesitant nod. "I expect you to keep up with the homework if only to learn the spells and memorize them, but feel free to use that time for other ventures. Primarily, this." She patted the book.

Jo leaned forward and began to read her parchment, finding that it was a syllabus.

 _ **Magical Spellcraft and Theory**_

 **W 6:00-9:00**

 **Part I: What is Magic?**

 _A. The classical heritage_

Week 1:

a. "Introduction to Magic Theory," 1-13

b. Solomon, Intro (41-44) & selections from _The Other World_ (45-77)

Week 2:

a. Zarathustra, Intro (83-87) & "Wonder" (88-115)

b. Medea, Intro (120-124) & selections from _The Occult_ (124-130)

 _B. Medieval and neoclassical theory_

Week 3:

a. Simon Magus, Intro (154-155) & all selections (156-162)

b. Merlin, Intro (177-180) & selections from _Biographia Magicae_ (181-200)

Week 4:

a. Morgan le Fay, Intro (223-225) & "Outside Magic" (226-239)

b. John Dee, Intro (240-242) & selections from _Strange Science_ (242-245, 248-252)

…. The list kept going all the way to week 14. It seemed he'd be doing this all semester.

"Uh…"

"I expect to see you here on Wednesday at this time. I also expect a meter on the readings, in whatever way you feel, as long as it's substantive, and believe me, I'll know if it's not."

"Uh…"

"Why so shocked? Isn't this what you wanted to know?" McGonagall leaned forward on her desk. "Mr. Claymont, regardless of what you might think of yourself and your.. origins… You came here as a student and so I've deemed you exceptional."

"To be fair, I have the advantage of age."

"Be that as it may, I would not be doing my job as a teacher if I let you run along with the others, wasting hours on spells you already know."

"… How advanced is this course?"

"NEWT level at least, though we haven't taught it in a good while. Too many failing grades. Though that shouldn't be a problem for you, should it? In fact, I'd say you're quite excited."

She was right. Jo was smiling, partially in disbelief, but also partially in pleasure. Just reading the names, both in terms of the person he'd be studying and their writings, gave him a bit of a thrill. What was _Medea_ of all people doing there? She was _real_?

"Now, kindly leave my office. You have a class to prepare for, as do I."

Jo stood straight up, holding the book and parchment against his chest. "… How did I cast the spell so easily?" he asked. "Honestly, it was the only reason I came here. Um, not that I don't appreciate it."

McGonagall weighed him with a heavy look, though that quirk of the lips joined it again. "It's rather simple. You knew you could do it, so you did it. I swear, Mr. Claymont, can't tell if you're a genius or just stupid enough to get away with anything."

Jo grinned. "I can't tell either," he said, and left.

As he walked back to his dorm room, he couldn't help the smirk that slid into his face. The Summoning Charm, _Accio_ , didn't seem very difficult at all.

* * *

Jo reached dinner late. He'd been mulling over his plan—well, more like snickering about it—and had finally decided to just go through with it. If, for whatever reason, it didn't work, he could just try again. It'd be best to get through the Quirrell-Voldemort problem as quickly as possible, and if he could do it on the first day then that was even better.

Luckily, the man was still there at the head table by the time Jo walked through the Great Hall's entrance. Walking to the Ravenclaw table, he sent a stealthy glance around, looking for any other possible issues.

Draco Malfoy sat stubbornly alone at the Hufflepuff table, about as miserable as Jo expected, pride marring his features. There were no overtures to conversation from the kids around him, and he looked dedicated to not make any himself, head held high, cutting chicken with more poise than anyone else in the room save perhaps McGonagall.

Speaking of which, she nodded at him upon making eye contact, and Jo responded with a smile she didn't seem to like. Entirely without his wanting to, some of the mischievous confidence that drove his marching step slipped into his expression. Oh well, Jo thought. She'd be gawking along with everyone else soon enough.

Hermione, of course, spotted him as soon as he stepped into the room, and immediately began shooting him glares even as he made to sit alongside her.

"'Sup," he said.

"You're rather late," she said, arms crossed.

"Oh, just getting in some study time. Learning, am I right?"

As he spoke, Jo saw the final piece of the puzzle. Harry Potter. The kid was more scrawny than he'd expected, though not to the overtly malnutritioned extent I know some of you expect. He was a small kid, it happens sometimes. Certainly, the crappy childhood didn't help, but nothing about him quite spoke to years of legitimate slave labor. Healthy enough, all things considered.

Well, healthy except for the rather terrible headache the kid seemed to have. Harry sat with his head in his hands, slouched over the table. Jo saw that Ron patted his shoulder, eliciting only a shake of Harry's head. Others were shooting him looks too, but they went back to their food at what Jo imagined to be Harry's silent insistence.

And every once in a while, Jo saw Harry look up at Quirrell, puzzled, before snapping back forward.

Right. Better to get it over with, then. And here, in the Great Hall, before the eyes of everyone. The perfect crime, really.

"Actually, I just learned a new spell only recently," Jo whispered to Hermione.

She raised a brow, head tilting. "Oh? Well out with it, then, what is it?"

"Pretty simple. I'll show you." Jo brought his wand up and pointed it straight at the ceiling with a grin. " _Accio_ Quirrell's turban."

Quirrell's head slammed on the table, caking his whole face in mashed potatoes and turkey. The sound echoed across the hall, casting all chatter in a rippling hush. The professors around him snapped to attention, the closest ones—Hagrid and a woman Jo knew to be Professor Sinistra—got up and checked him over. Students looked up at them, at Quirrell, then at each other, partly confused and partly chuckling in that confusion. Snape saw it happen in stern silence. McGonagall zeroed in on Jo immediately. Hermione looked at him, absolutely affronted. Dumbledore kept on eating his chips. Harry looked along with the others, his headache apparently gone.

Jo, his wand held up, felt his stomach drop into the pits of hell.

Whoops.

He was, of course, given detention. By McGonagall, who was more than happy to hand out as many hours as she thought he needed for what she called 'a catastrophic and positively disrespectful misuse of magic.' She would've taken the responsibility of proctoring it, but Quirrell intervened in his sporadic way. Fumbling with his words, Quirrell said he'd be more than happy to teach Jo some manners.

All along, Jo only thought one thing over and over. He thought, it's glued on. _Of course_ it's glued on.

* * *

 **AN: I'm excited to get into the real meat of this story now: both Jo's studies in magical theory and his game of chicken with a Voldemort who suspects him.**

 **Thank you for reading, as well as all the support. Please follow, favorite, or review.**


	8. A Deal and a Trap

**8\. A Deal and A Trap**

* * *

Jo understood that he'd been stupid.

He liked to think of himself as a rather humble person. Someone who never overestimated what he could do or what plans he could come up with. Someone who wasn't all that smart relative to others.

At the same time, he acknowledged the inherent hypocrisy which would eventually lead to the creation of this story. Walking through the Forbidden Forest in a starless night, his way lit only by Hagrid's lantern and the shining, beady eyes he knew stared at him from behind thick trees and shrubbery, Jo finally understood that thought did not necessarily translate into action. Something he'd only been capable of knowing in abstract became a tangible, oppressive truth, as all-encompassing as the blanket of fog which rolled in thick clumps around them.

"For someone with enough stones to get detention like yeh did," Hagrid said, deep voice chuckling, "ye sure look scared of it!"

Jo didn't turn to look back at either the half-giant or at Fang, the similarly large hound dog strutting beside them. Instead, he kept his eyes on the woods because he knew the depth of his mistake hadn't yet revealed itself. It was one thing to get detention; annoying, but bearable. It was another thing entirely to get detention in the one place he could be unceremoniously killed by the very dark lord he'd just tried to unmask the day before.

Quirrell hadn't so much as looked his way during class. Whatever excitement there had been was carried entirely by Jo's classmates, who had been expecting some sort of WWE-style smackdown on the part of their teacher. The whole hour had been spent in tense anticipation, with Jo himself falling for the hype somewhat even as he knew that any confrontation between them would likely wait until it could occur in private. When class ended and Quirrell allowed him to walk out without that confrontation, Jo was puzzled but otherwise relieved. When he caught the note that flew in from the common room's window and read where he'd be spending the night, that relief turned into creeping panic.

Hermione, sitting next to him with two thick tomes one atop the other on her lap, had noticed the sudden, gulping sigh. She'd snuck a look at the note, then tutted and turned the page on _An Extended History of Riddles, Volume I_.

"Serves you right," she'd said. "I still have no clue what you could have _possibly_ been thinking with that stunt of yours."

"I guess that's fair," Jo had said. He'd crumpled up the note and tossed it into the fireplace, watching it turn to cinders and, finally, burn to nothing.

Now, in the forest, Jo figured there were two ways the night could go. One: things went smoothly, he and Hagrid got done with whatever excuse the large man had come up with to give him the tour, and he went to sleep safe and comfortable under the soft blue covers of his bed. Two: Something convinced Hagrid to split their group up, a robed figure of death snuck up behind him, and his life was accordingly cut short by a speeding ray of green lightning. Either way, Jo kept a hand on his wand. Having the magical equivalent of a gun in his pocket helped with the nerves.

"So, what exactly are we here for, Hagrid?" Jo asked. "Don't tell me you guys sent me here just to scare me into line."

"Aye, that'd be part 'ovit." Hagrid grumbled out another laugh. "But we've 'ere to do somethin' alright. Should be safe, all things considered."

"Am I gonna learn what all this is about, or should I just stand here trembling?"

"I'd not stop yeh!" Finally, they stopped, Hagrid looking somewhere ahead. "Let's just say I'm 'ere to meet an old friend."

Jo had to lean sideways to look at whatever it was from behind the big lug, and all he could see was more forest. That is, until Hagrid lifted his lamp. Orange strings shone into existence, glowing within the fog, and Jo saw with a start that the whole forest before them was filed with webbing. Some ways past it all, Jo could barely make the shape of a cave, its entrance a shade blacker than what he thought was possible even under such a dark sky, a black hole right on the forest floor.

"That's not ominous at all," Jo said.

"I'll go alone," Hagrid said, stepping forward. "My friend don't appreciate meetin' new people much."

"I don't think we'd get along very well anyway."

"You're tellin' me. I'll leave Fang with you."

Jo glanced at the large dog beside him, its wrinkled face turning to look up at him with seemingly equal doubt. "You sure? He looks more scared than me."

"That's why. Fang needs _someone_ lookin' out for 'im."

For not the first time during their brief trip, Jo considered that maybe Hagrid deserved to lose his teaching privileges in the books, even I the way it happened had been unfair. He watched Hagrid walk farther and farther away, the light of his lamp swallowed by shadow and fog, before pulling out his wand and casting _lumos_.

He stood still, looking around him with only Fang and the alien thrum of the forest to keep him company. Bushes shook, the sound echoing low all around them, and the chirping of some far-off creature split the patterned stillness, though nothing came of it.

"I guess getting detention here of all places _would_ put most kids in their place," he muttered. When Fang whined next to him, Jo bent low to pet the shaking dog. "Man, you're a total chicken, huh? Guess I can't blame you."

Fang raised his head, looking at something past the trees. Jo followed the sight, finding nothing but already feeling his bowels dropping steadily as the seconds ticked by without interruption.

Another chirp, one cut prematurely somewhere to their left. Jo and Fang both followed the sound this time, with the former raising his wand toward the trees, the light barely reaching past a few dozen yards.

A low groan. Close. Fang began whining again, backing away from the noise, keeping Jo between him and whatever caused it. As for Jo, he fortified the courage crumbling in his chest, like spilling buckets of sand onto a coastline eroded by the waves of his beating heart. He aimed his wand forward.

A figure pooled out of the shadows, drifting steadily closer. Jo stepped back. Fang darted away into the trees behind him, his ragged barks dropping out with distance.

"Don't move!" Jo said, voice loud with sudden, panicked rage.

The figure came closer and closer, a floating black cloak looming over him, almost dimming the light of Jo's wand as it neared, unperturbed by its shaky aim.

Jo gulped and said the one thing he figured could save him.

"T-That's close enough, Professor Quirrell."

The figure paused. For a moment, Jo watched it stand in impossible stillness, as if frozen in time, staring down at him from behind its hood. Slowly, its arms came up and, with a sudden swish, drew the hood down to reveal the eccentric professor, his features made pale and eyes bloodshot. Whatever he'd been doing—Jo didn't know whether the man had begun gulping down unicorn blood yet—it had left him adequately vampiric for the setting. The biggest difference between the man Jo had met within Hogwarts' walls and the one who now stood before him, however, was the lack of a turban.

"So you _do_ know," Quirrell said, voice gravely and eyes wide. One of his hands came up, wand pointing straight at Jo. "Either way—"

"I'm not the only one!"

Quirrell paused. Jo felt his breath hitch, then gulped it down.

"I know plenty. Including what's stuck behind that head of yours."

"... Who else?"

The words came out calmly, but each syllable hit Jo with an invisible, knee-tumbling force. He couldn't tell whether it was a sort of magic or the mere intensity with which each word was said. But he stayed up, if barely, and met Quirrell's unblinking eyes.

"That's the thing," Jo said, licking his dry lips. "I'm the only one who _knows_ , but not the only one who _suspects_. If I don't come out of here alive, though… Well, that'd be enough to open you up to some real scrutiny."

It was his only play. McGonagall might not entirely believe him, but Jo had told her all about Quirrell's nighttime activities during the first book. It wouldn't be much of a jump for her to at least recognize that some random accident out in the Forbidden Forest might not be much of an accident after all. He trusted her to at least look into things if that came to pass.

"You lie," Quirrell said.

"Try it." Jo set his mouth in a tight line. "Try it and then try stepping a foot back into Hogwarts."

Quirrell stared at him, expressionless. "I could kill you regardless. Whoever comes after me then… I'd kill them as well."

"Don't kid yourself." Jo felt his breath deepen, his shoulders relax ever so slightly. "As you are now… As your _master_ is now… We both know Dumbledore would wipe you off the map in a second."

Quirrell didn't say anything, and feeling some semblance of control, Jo almost cracked into shocked laughter. _It's working. It's actually working._ Instead, he grit his teeth and pounced.

"If I don't come back from this forest in one piece," Jo said, voice low, "there'll be an investigation, and I can promise you that you'll be a prime suspect. You might still get to teach and roam around, but every portrait in the place will be watching your every move. And if that happens, you're never getting near the third-floor corridor."

"The stone… So you know about that as well…"

" _ **Boy…"**_

Just like that, Jo lost all the confidence he'd managed to regain over the past few minutes. The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, almost as if it spoke directly into his mind.

"Master, allow me to—"

" _ **I'll say my piece!"**_

The voice slithered and hissed, each syllable heavier than the last. Jo found himself smiling as Quirrell turned around, not in amusement but in a strange mixture of fear and awe as he saw the deformed face stuck to the back of the man's bald head. Its eyes slit, its nostrils more so, a mouth that grimaced in apparent distaste for everything. For whatever reason, Jo had imagined a moment like this would feel just as campy as it had in the movies, but he couldn't ignore the way his lungs constricted at the sight. More than anything else he'd seen thus far, Voldemort seemed entirely unreal.

" _ **You… I'll have you killed before me, boy… Perhaps not now… But I'll make sure to see it done…"**_

Jo almost forgot to speak. With a sudden gasp, he managed out a few words. "That's a nice threat."

" _ **No threat… A matter of fact…"**_ The red, slit eyes managed to narrow further, closing in feline aggression. _**"For now… Let us parlay…"**_

"What are you, a pirate?"

It should be said here that Jo had, until now, never been in a life or death situation. He was, after all, a fairy normal person in his past life. He'd never gotten into a serious fight. He'd never held or been held up by a weapon. The closest he'd come to combat had been karate class in elementary school. The closest he'd come to dying had been a car accident at a suburban intersection, and even then the worst he got was a mild bruise.

For whatever reason, when finally placed in a position where he could die at any moment, Jo found that he defaulted to talking smack. He was as surprised as Voldemort was. At the moment, Jo could only allow the words to come of their own volition, every other part of his brain working feverishly to stop himself from pissing his pants. But now that he knew this about himself, Jo would later privately think that it was, without question, the coolest thing he could do.

Voldemort chose to ignore the comment. Though Quirrell's wand hand twitched briefly. Jo's own wand drew forward at the sight, his feet shifting back, and the standoff continued.

" _ **I see that I've no choice but to let you live…"**_

"Gee, thanks."

" _ **Run back to your castle, boy… Feel secure in its walls… But know that, should you hamper my work, walls won't protect you or any of those other pasty children from my retribution…"**_

At this, Jo frowned. "You'll get caught."

Voldemort's grimace twisted into the gross visage of a smile, lips curling. _**"Not without claiming a few more lives…"**_

The thought of Tracy or Wayne or Hermione dead burned at Jo's stomach. _And,_ he knew, _it's not like getting caught or killed here would actually put an end to you anyway._

Quirrell's use as a host was convenient but ultimately unnecessary. As long as Voldemort's horcruxes were intact he'd be safe to come back, even if it took years.

 _The only thing keeping him here at all is the Philosopher's Stone,_ Jo thought.

If his identity was revealed, Voldemort would just run, even if it meant abandoning Quirrell for another host. In that light, Jo felt even more stupid for the stunt he pulled with the turban; say it had come off and revealed the truth to everyone, so what? Voldemort's chance at true resurrection wasn't worth getting his spirit trapped by Dumbledore.

And now that Jo had changed so much… could he really trust that Voldemort would rig the Triwizard Tournament a whole three years from now? Could he really trust that the dark lord would come back to a place where some random kid had mysteriously figured out his secret? Letting Voldemort know Jo knew who he was had been done as a last resort strategy for survival, but now Jo could see the repercussions of it.

 _Keeping him in Quirrell is my best bet._

They'd cornered each other, then. Voldemort couldn't kill him as long as his death would raise the suspicion of McGonagall, and he couldn't out Voldemort as long as doing so would let Voldemort escape into the ether and plan something entirely outside his ability to control. The game, then, would be to keep Voldemort at Hogwarts while Jo went about and ensured there would be no escape, which meant…

 _I guess we're speeding things up a bit._

"Fine, I'll shake on that," Jo said. Then, he grimaced. "Or, you know, we can just agree on it without touching each other. No offence, but you're gross."

" _ **I suppose you'd not tell me how you came to know of my existence…"**_ at Jo's shaking head, Voldemort let out a series of gasping, throaty breaths which the boy realized with a start was a laugh. _**"No matter… I'll be watching, boy… Don't let that tongue of yours run away with you…"**_

Jo waited for it, even as Quirrell turned back around. The two met eyes once more, Jo ready to bolt, but to his puzzlement the man lowered his wand.

"I'll see you in class, Mr. Claymont," Quirrell said. After another strained moment, he stepped back into the shadows, vanishing like a drop of water into a pool.

Jo waited some time more, wand up and shining, but after a minute he decided he was safe. His eyes, however, kept boring into where Quirrell had left.

There were many ways the man could've at least try to break the standoff without killing him. The _imperius_ curse, for one. There would've been no need for a deal if Jo could just get brainwashed to not say anything. Had Voldemort and Quirrell thought the chances of him dodging and running away too risky? Had they merely forgotten? Jo didn't think so.

"Fang! Where'd that bloody hound run off to?"

Jo turned to see Hagrid walking towards him, the half-giant cringing a bit with each step. It seemed the old friend had played rough this time around.

"He got spooked," Jo said. "Should I have gone after him?"

Hagrid sighed, more tired than worried, and patted Jo's shoulder. "Nah, son. Better Fang out there by hisself than yeh. But we'll have to find 'im now. Can't be too far off…" He shook his head, taking the lead and gesturing for Jo to follow. "Truth is, this place can turn yer stomach over, but the centaurs make sure nothin' too nasty roams about. At least, not so close to the school."

The irony wasn't lost on Jo, and he might've even commented on it, but he was too busy thinking. What could he do right now to close the trap on Voldemort? He needed allies. He needed information. And he needed a piece of parchment to write all of I down.

But first things first. He needed to get his hands on a certain "lost" circlet.

* * *

 **Excerpt from Solomon's** _ **The Other World**_ **:**

 _Let it be known: in what other terms must we discuss the strange forces under my command if not in the terms of demons and spirits? For if I a stone flies with the wave of my hand, is that not the work of God? If a rat spasms in pain upon nothing but my word, is that not the devil's power under my holy direction?_

 _The light of heaven has long left the world of man, but perhaps its shadow lingers still. Angels wait upon our breath, their fallen companions as well, invisible to us but subject to our actions. Were I not a lowly man, subject myself to sin and death, perhaps their great energies might reveal themselves in their full might. If my works are but a trickle, the truth of what we cannot see must shine as the sun upon the desert, each grain of sand gleaming in reflective light…_

* * *

 **Thank you all for your support.**


	9. Hidden Things and Truthful Things

**9\. Hidden Things and Truthful Things**

* * *

It took a while for Jo to find. He only remembered that it was somewhere in the seventh floor. This being a castle, the seventh floor was fairly large, so Jo skipped dinner and spent the few hours between his last class and curfew to pace through its halls, walking to and fro in circles, all the while thinking that he desperately needed a room to appear.

Eventually, it did appear. A door slowly slid into existence, bricks sliding out of the way to form a frame. Sighing, both tired and relieved, Jo turned the knob and opened the door.

It was a blank, empty room, barely larger than a cupboard. He'd only asked for a room, whatever that meant. It both made sense and made him begrudgingly appreciate the castle's sense of humor. Jo clicked his tongue, closed the door, stepped back and, with a room full of hidden things in his head, paced three times.

The door expanded, its knob growing into a handle. This time, Jo pulled the door open and found himself exactly where he wanted to be.

He stepped inside, the door closing behind him. Piles upon piles of random trash lay before him like hills. It felt like being in a landfill shoved into a department store, some of the stuff reaching as far as the ceiling even as the headspace blew past any other room Jo had ever been in. Fortunately, the smell was less sewer garbage and more akin to a dusty old bookstore.

"Alrighty," Jo muttered, looking around and immediately giving up on finding anything specific. He raised his wand. " _Accio_ Ravenclaw's diadem."

Nothing.

" _Accio_ horcrux."

Nope.

" _Accio_ … Voldemort's murder crown?"

He didn't think it would work to begin with, but it was worth a try, and it served to make him chuckle a bit. It looked like he'd have to do things the hard way.

Jo started walking. He weaved between coat hangers and bookcases. At times he crouched under bridges formed out of stacked desks. Crumpled clothes covered everything. He saw a row of vials filled with strange green liquid which churned without provocation. He saw a net of vines growing—still growing—out of a relatively small pot. Once, he saw an honest to goodness magic lamp, but when he rubbed it only a small puff of smoke spewed out, which made him think that whatever had been inside it was long gone.

After some twenty minutes, Jo found a cauldron full of galleons. He hummed, then found a sturdy-looking cupboard nearby. After some thought, he summoned a spell book, flipped through it, tossed it aside, summoned another, tossed it aside, summoned another, and finally a rather powerful strengthening charm. He applied it to the cupboard, walked into it, closed the door, and, raising his wand, summoned all the money.

And I do mean _all_ the money.

What followed was several minutes of thumping and clanking, like rainfall against a windowpane. When the cupboard stopped shaking, Jo pushed the door open, huffing in effort, until he finally got enough room to squeeze out. He was met with a veritable sea of gold, silver, and copper, a truly Scroogeian image which made him wish diving into solid piles of metal could be as fun as it looked in the movies. There were British pounds and dollar bills and euros and pesos and what he thought were even Vietnamese dongs, but mostly he found an untold number of galleons and sickles and knuts, or in economic terms, several hundred pounds of precious metal. Needless to say, he would not be trading those in to the goblins. That meant finding a muggle buyer, but he could figure that out later.

Jo summoned a wallet, then another spell book which told him the incantation for the extension charm, and finally begun to spill all the money into the endless void he'd made for himself. It was only halfway through this effort, using both arms to slide the coins in waves, when Jo remembered that what he was doing was technically illegal. Lost or not, it didn't really belong to him, did it?

He decided to just never tell anyone.

When there was no money left, he stuck the wallet in his pocket at patted it in satisfaction. He didn't know how much that was, would have to count it later, but it had been _a lot_. I can tell you now that this all added up to around 154 million dollars worth of currency.

The Room of Requirement is ridiculous. Think about how much random shit is in there. Why would someone willingly drag a _cupboard_ of all things up to the seventh floor just to stick it somewhere no one will ever find it? If you ask me, that room just steals from everywhere else in the castle. It's the only way it makes any sense. Things get lost around the castle and then end up there, where they can serve as a nice bit of background detail for the movies.

Think about how much money you lose _in your own house_. Now expand that to cover a centuries-old castle with a constantly rotating population of hundreds of children, many of which are themselves part of Wizarding aristocracy already. Jo was fortunate that Wizard culture was so set in its ways, not having followed the muggle world in switching to fiat currency. Some coin designs and markings varied through the generations, but gold was gold, and gold never goes out of print.

So Jo carried on, now richer than he'd ever been in either of his lives.

In all honesty, he did briefly consider running off with it. Go directly to Gringotts, figure out how to convert all the muggle money into Wizarding money, melt it all down, sell it to someone on the outside, and peace out into an eternal vacation, Howarts and all its residents be damned. During this small interval of time, as his commitment to repairing all the consequences of his actions wavered, Jo learned something truly dark about himself: he'd do it, and it didn't seem a very difficult decision at all. He was all set to run right then and there. At least he was, until he placed that choice within its greater context.

Should Voldemort win out in the end, he'd likely go on to terrorize the rest of the world in some way or another. Or at least he'd try to, and God knew how _that_ would go. Jo would have to read up on Wizarding geopolitics; how powerful was Voldemort truly, outside of Britain?

 _I'd rather not find out_ , Jo thought, and that bit of fear made the decision for him. Not the lives of all those he'd inadvertently compromised—this he could now admit to himself, at the very least—and not the few relationships he'd managed to string together, small as they were. Not even his sense of responsibility toward a favorite story form childhood was strong enough to impede his preemptive escape. It was all due to his own long-term self-interest. Endless vacation didn't sound very fun if along with it came a possible magic fascist rising to power.

Not exactly something he'd have liked to learn about himself, but there it was. Oh well. At this point, Jo felt so useless he could only be grateful that the internal revelation hadn't been any worse. Not even his newfound wealth could blunt the spiral of depressive thoughts which carried him down with each step. Much of it had to do with his recent mistakes, but some also had to do with his current fruitless search. Where the _hell_ was that diadem?

There was simply too much stuff. Jo stopped, looking about him, the heat of frustration coloring his face and inflaming his chest. It would take weeks to sort through it all, perhaps even months. If only the place wasn't so damn _big_. If only it didn't have all this useless—

 _Wait a minute._

Horcruxes couldn't be destroyed, right? Not by any normal means. As for the rest of the clutter… Well, where were those spell books again?

After some backtracking, Jo found them where he'd left them, right along with the cupboard. He'd need that again too, of course, though a bit more secure for what he was planning. A quick read through the books gave him a few more spells he'd need—a fireproofing spell, a blast-resistance spell, several shield charms… On second thought, he'd better take these books in with him.

Facing the cupboard, he waved his wand at it, layering it with spells. It took a few minutes just to apply them all, and it took another few minutes for him to test them. Jo tried his best to disintegrate the wooden thing, firing _reducto_ after _bombarda_ after _sectumsempra_ at it until he was satisfied, finding on its aged surface not so much as a scratch from his efforts. He piled the books inside, then wavered, then cast the extension charm on it, summoned more books, piled them on, summoned a few more, piled those on. By the end of it he had his own sizeable collection, and it still wasn't enough to satisfy him, but Jo figured he could keep stacking them up forever.

He had to force himself inside the cupboard, all the while fighting back the nagging in his head which told him that he was merely adding onto an ever-expanding list of rash decisions. What else could be hidden in there, among the rubble of such storied history? What treasures, what memories? The room was a monument onto itself, a collection of time, holding entire libraries of secrets in its mounds and heaps of knickknacks.

For all Jo knew, this room truly did go all the way back to Hogwarts' founding, and it alone could account for all the castle's long legacy in its purest, most beautifully detached form. So many had walked those hollowed halls; students and their teachers, masters of art and their apprentices, future world leaders, acclaimed geniuses and unacknowledged researchers, authoritarian dictators and idealistic rebels, joyful pranksters and their studious counterparts, monster slayers, musicians, quidditch champions in the infancy of their careers… so much material and spiritual runoff, all hidden from sight and stashed here, in a room most would never discover, but one which in its own way expressed the human condition as the work of human hands never could. Piles upon piles of random trash.

…

Fuck it.

Jo pointed his wand out from the cupboard and said one simple word.

" _Incendio."_

With that, he threw himself back and closed the door.

* * *

The next morning, Jo went straight to McGonagall's office once again, this time with Ravenclaw's diadem in tow. He'd wanted to do so right after finding it the day before, but by then curfew had already passed, and he had to sneak into the dorms before getting found out by Filch or the guy's creepy cat. He wasn't looking to get any more detention.

On his way there, he turned a corner and stumbled upon the one person he'd been going out of his way to avoid since coming to Hogwarts. Nearly tripping, Jo saw Harry Potter walking in his direction, face drawn up into a smile.

The boy was small, though not dangerously so. Jo could see he was at least half a head shorter than himself, even if his unruly hair covered a few more centimeters. Without his even meaning to, Jo looked directly at Harry's scar, and found the iconic lightning mark as a thin line of discolored skin.

"Oh," Harry said, and Jo's eyes went down to the boy's round glasses. "You're… that person who tried to prank Professor Quirrell, right?"

Internally, Jo cursed himself. The boy likely wouldn't have sent him more than a passing hello if he'd only kept walking, but his sudden stop had drawn a bit more attention. To his mounting alarm, Harry then put a hand on the scar, lips curling in a mild wince.

The diadem. Jo's hand tightened around the bag he'd stuck it into. It was a small bag, as he'd expanded it and sent the diadem inside in an attempt to prevent this very reaction from this very person. It went without saying that a nearby horcrux might produce such a reaction in Harry, and unfortunately for them both it seemed as if the boy could still pick up on the vile magic even when it was trapped within what was effectively another dimension. As casually as he could, Jo stuck the bag in his pocket, and though he couldn't be sure that it helped any, Harry lowered the hand.

"That's me, alright," Jo said. "I was actually going to McGonagall's office right now to… talk about it."

At this, Harry's face turned pitying, and Jo almost breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's too bad," Harry said. "Do you know where it is? I actually just came from there."

"I've been there already, but thanks." Though he knew he probably shouldn't spend any more time there, Jo couldn't help a brief bout of curiosity. "… What did she need you for, anyway? Get in trouble too?"

Harry shook his head, and his smile returned. "No, it's… Believe it or not, she wants me to join the Gryffindor quidditch team."

"Really?" Jo's confusion came for obvious reason. As far as he knew, Draco and Neville had both been sent to Hufflepuff—he'd seen them in his own shared broom flying class. With Harry still in Gryffindor and paired with the Slytherins, the series of events which led to his joining the quidditch team a year earlier than everyone else couldn't have happened.

Harry mistook the cause of this puzzlement. "Isn't it brilliant? I guess she must've been watching our class from her office."

"It's brilliant, alright…"

Had he mentioned Harry's prodigious flying skills to McGonagall when he'd first told her of his future knowledge? Maybe in passing, but even if he had he found it difficult to believe that she'd believed him without evidence, at least not enough to pull a move like this.

"What did you do?" Jo asked. "You must've really impressed her."

Harry shrugged. "I guess I flew better than the others." He bowed his head, shoulders scrunched up in sudden embarrassment. "Um… not that I'm better than the actual players, at least I don't think so. Professor McGonagall just told me that I was a natural on the broom."

Jo looked at him. Harry seemed to find it rather uncomfortable, but Jo kept looking, too busy with his thoughts to pay the boy any mind.

Harry was a natural on the broom. Was it possible that McGonagall merely looked outside her window, perhaps on a whim, perhaps remembering something he'd said, and the boy had been just that impressive regardless of the circumstances? Either way, it had resulted in a complete invalidation of Jo's intrusion into their world, at least in this one instance.

Jo couldn't trust the result of his own actions. Even now, he hardly knew what might happen once he put the horcrux in his pocket right on McGonagall's desk as he planned to. But perhaps he didn't need to predict everything. He'd changed much already, but it seemed there were some things which would always stay the same. It seemed to be in the boy's blood, or perhaps it was the result of a terrible eyesight and worse glasses suddenly fixed by Hermione's _reparo_ on the train. Either way, Harry would always be good with a broom, and it seemed it had nothing to do with Jo at all.

"… Well, have a good day, then…"

"Sorry, sorry," Jo said, holding up a hand. "I got lost in thought… You're Harry Potter, right?"

Once again, Harry covered his scar, though now it was for an entirely different reason. "… Yeah, I am," he said, and his shoulders scrunched even more.

"I couldn't help but notice," Jo said. He held out his hand. "My name is Joseph, but just call me Jo."

Hesitating, Harry eventually took the offered hand, and Jo shook it firmly. "Nice to meet you."

"You too. Hey, if you don't mind me asking…" Jo rubbed his chin, thinking of how to word it. "I… Well, you're famous, right? I bet it's a pain to have so many people expecting so much of you. If you don't mind me asking, how do you deal with it?"

Harry looked away, hands fidgeting, and Jo figured he'd pushed it a bit.

"Sorry," he said, "nevermind. I was just curious."

"No, it's fine," Harry said. "To be honest, I didn't really know I was famous or anything until a little while ago." His back straightening a bit, the boy grabbed at the sleeves of his robe, brow dipped into a frown. "I guess… I just try not to think about it. I'm just trying to be normal and… well, all I can do is the best I can."

Jo considered this. "You're right," he said, and all at once felt a great weight fall from his shoulders. "You're exactly right. Thank you, Harry."

"Oh, uh… you're welcome?"

"I'd better get going, then," Jo said, smiling. He passed by Harry, patting the boy's shoulder on his way. "Good luck on the quidditch team."

"Ah, nice to meet you too."

Jo walked off toward McGonagall's office, feeling more refreshed than he had in days. No, he hadn't handled his present situation perfectly. In the future, he might make many more mistakes—would be sure to, actually. But right now, he had a horcrux in his pocket and a professor to show it to. Whatever came of that, he'd accept the consequences. In the end, that's all he could do.

* * *

 **From Jo's notes on Solomon's _The Other World:_**

… _Whether his allusion to abrahamic mythology is mere metaphor or a sincere expression of faith, either possibility has the same effect: Solomon creates a clear dichotomy between acts of magic and acts of mundanity, splitting them into two essentially incompatible realms. To cast a spell isn't a function of the mundane world, but one alien to it, made possible only through the work of a medium, or in his words, a binder of demons._

 _With that idea at its core, Solomon's following conclusions seem perfectly natural. The sorcerer becomes a separate entity in himself, rising above his fellow man as the only one capable of this communion between worlds and, in effect, bringing heaven down to earth. The 'other world', then, defines not only the forces of magic but also the lives of those with access to it, special people who stand apart from the supposed rabble. Any bias Solomon might hold as one of these special people, not to mention what bias he might hold as a king with subjects likely too afraid to deem his thoughts blasphemous, is left entirely unspoken. It's impossible to tell if this is due to ignorance or a deliberate obfuscation is left equally uncertain._

 _It's interesting how, thousands of years later, these very ideas have disseminated into modern Wizarding culture in such an apparent list of customs. Pure blood ideology could be considered the logical conclusion to the seed that Solomon planted, and even the Statute of Secrecy, foundational as it is to the security of Wizarding society, could be seen as the ultimate crystallization of these ideas. If an 'other world' was simply a metaphor in Solomon's time, it certainly isn't anymore…_

* * *

 **AN: No, the text above is not based on a real book.**

 **I've started some other projects here if anyone is interested. They're on my author page. Thank you all for reading.**


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